


Many Fruitless Victories

by perelleth



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Elves in near future, Elves in near past, Gen, Saving Arda one Tree at a Time, Science Fiction, The End of Arda
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 21:08:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29922876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perelleth/pseuds/perelleth
Summary: After endless years roaming the lands of Hither on their own, last of their kin in the lands of Hither, Maglor, Celeborn, Daeron and Thranduil join forces to fight the end of Arda and save the Edain from themselves.To no one’s surprise, the Dagor Dagorath ends up having little to do with Pengolod’s speculations.
Comments: 9
Kudos: 10





	1. A Chance Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> The story was posted years ago in another site. I just polished and edited a bit.
> 
> I have no doubt that, had these elves remained in Middle-earth, they would now be actively - if discreetly- fighting against environmental devastation, as true Stewards of Arda. The story was inspired by -and written in- the style of science-fiction classics. Real places, cultural expressions and situations are slightly modified and used with the utmost respect for the sake of story-telling.  
  
---  
  
**_Rome, Italy. July 2 nd 2005_ **

The Elf climbed the last flight of stairs at a hurried pace, jumping over every other step, his dark mane dancing freely on his back, his leather-shod feet caressing the ancient flagstones. 

He stopped for a spell when he reached the empty piazza. Arien speared the top of Quirinale Hill mercilessly in that hot summer day, glistening on ancient marble at every corner. A gentle breeze carried along the echoes of the noisy “Stop Poverty- Aid 8” event that was taking place down there in the Foro -in the long, ruined stretch of grass that had once been the Circus Maximus and that was still the largest venue in the world. 

He hadn’t paused there to recover his breath, though, or to admire the stunning views from the skilfully open side of the piazza -the Eternal City splayed under his feet. He bowed silently, as he always did, to the mighty statues upon their tall stand flanking the obelisk and the fountain. The sight of the _Dióscuri,_ the mortal-immortal twins of Roman mythology, always comforted him in a strange way, bringing memories of times past and lost family. 

That was what he liked about Rome, Maglor thought as he stood there, dwelling upon fond memories of two lively, petulant half-elven children he had once fostered and come to love as his own before they all followed their separate fates.

Many things were _ancient_ there, even for elven standards. 

He left the fountain -and the presidential residence- behind and crossed the square with purposeful strides. With a brief nod to the guard at the door, he entered the art centre housed in what used to be the stables and barracks of the Pope’s guard. 

A flight of winding staircase led him to a wide, empty corridor lit by the afternoon sun that filtered through large four-paned, wood-framed windows. A lone table before a closed door was the only indication of a meeting being held there. 

“You are quite late, sir, the conference began hours ago.” A well-dressed young man greeted him in friendly rebuke.

He produced his identification and smiled. “Never too late to learn something, is it?” he joked in his wonderful voice. 

The young man returned his smile as he proffered a plastic-looking badge. “Hundred per cent recyclable, Mr. Lauren,” he hurried to explain with a smug smirk at his frown.

Obviously the kid must have heard lots of complaints, he thought. For once, he refrained from giving a lecture about energy waste and the ecological impact of even hundred-per-cent recyclable items. _Leave that to Thranduil,_ he thought with wicked amusement. With a shrug, he opened the door and entered the room where an invitation-only technical meeting had been taking place since two hours before his arrival. 

Some heads turned towards him as the door opened to the first row of seats. Not for the first time, he cursed careless architects in charge of restoration of historical buildings for their disregard towards the requirements of social functions. 

There were three speakers on a large table upon an empty stage, facing twenty or thirty rows of seats. He nodded briefly, although he knew none of those who sought eye contact with him, and walked silently towards the end of the room. He stood there -despite the many empty chairs- leaning upon one of the stone columns that made part of the original structure. The touch of the old stone reassured him.

The chairman, who was also the head of the Environmental, Food and Agricultural World Systems, EFAWS, was about to introduce the next speaker, a tall man in his late fifties with a shock of dark hair that was greying in the edges and blue, sparkling eyes in a tanned face.

This was the man Maglor had come to listen to. The opinions of the chairman and the woman sitting by the chairman’s left he knew only too well, but it was the first time in fifteen years that the elderly scientist abandoned his field job to attend a high level meeting for the organization’s financial framework planning. 

Even before the lights had been turned out, and while the video started playing, the man began his speech in a slow, calm and beautifully intoned voice that only enhanced the haunting, terrifying images and devastatingly accurate data that showed the apparently unavoidable ruin faced by many ecosystems around the world.

From Lake Victoria in Tanzania to Aral Sea in Central Asia, pollution, despoilment, erosion, deforestation, soil loss, fires, landslides, famine, drought, overexploitation of ecosystems starred in the shocking images that dwelled coldly, but with kind compassion, upon a nightmarish world that was less than a six hour flight from Rome, and which was no different elsewhere. 

Even for one hardened by long years of fighting ruthless biological devastation as Maglor, the pain was difficult to endure without some effort. A dense, stunned silence blanketed the room when the lights were turned on and the chairman opened the discussion. 

The assault commenced almost immediately, though, as some members of the audience began rebuking the lecturer for arousing unnecessary panic and disregarding what they considered was clear and sufficient progress. 

“I don’t dismiss the data provided by EFAWS, I am responsible for producing and overseeing many of those, after all,” the speaker calmly argued a heated point. “And I definitely agree that it is only good news that we are progressing in poverty reduction," he added softly, “for there is a huge tide, ladies and gentlemen, threatening to overwhelm and drown our safe, comfortable and ordered lives for lack of better hope. Either we agree to act now in defence of the Earth’s most vulnerable peoples and ecosystems, or the consequences will be unimaginably dire for all…to the point that we might soon be looking at an Earth that is becoming unable to sustain life.” 

“The point of these series of meetings,” the chairman interrupted, trying to appease the incensed opposition, “is to present the preliminary results of the EFAWS’ field work in the last fifteen years, the conclusions that our top scientist, Dr Feldman here, and his highly qualified, multidisciplinary team have drawn from their research and field operations during that time, and their subsequent projections and recommendations. This is only a snapshot of the work they have been carrying along the world, highlighting the most urgent problems they consider need to be drawn to the attention of the international donor community presently…”

He drank some water and then continued. “The purpose, then, is to make this data and diagnostics available to the organizations you represent, in order to see whether EFAWS’ priorities for the new funding framework should align with this dramatic change of paradigm Dr Feldman has brought to our attention. These figures will be presented next week at the G8 conference in Edinburgh, to kickstart the consultation process for the financial framework,” he explained. “No decision whatsoever will be made until the General Assembly that is scheduled for Decembre next year…”

 _Typical of the Edain,_ the elf thought in exasperation as the discussion progressed. The louder voices, of course, argued against any change. _Give them an objective, cold, scientifically-based hard truth, and then sit back to watch them wander away in search of a more comfortable lie or half-truth. Morgoth did a good job, indeed, but their blindness and raw indifference must have been bred by Sauron himself, I bet._

“The fact is,” Doctor Feldman argued patiently for the umpteenth time, “that we might half poverty rates, or even eliminate it, and yet find out that we have no land, soil, water, clean air, even climate to continue to sustain Earth’s populations, human and else,” he insisted in his soothing, hopeful voice. “Tipping points are looming and once they are tipped it will be a systemic failure. We need to change our way of abusing the biosphere, for we are wasting away far more than we can afford already. Plainly speaking, we cannot sustain infinite growth in a finite planet…” 

“That discourse is outdated, Doctor Feldman, and needlessly overdramatic,” a smartly dressed woman who failed to introduce herself cut in dismissively. “We can now produce almost everything in an ecologically sound manner and in endless amounts. And technology will provide solutions for any remaining issues. Technology is the only way forward, as it has always been. Doom soothsayers like yourself are old-fashioned, if necessary, reminders of another age, I suppose. There is no doubt that we are progressing in all fronts and metrics, despite those who try to garner attention by becoming the voice of doom, those who would that we all went back to the Stone Age...” she added scathingly. 

A stunned silence followed her harsh words. The chairman coughed and pointed towards the end of the room. “The gentleman at the back.” 

“Malcom Lauren, for Greenwood Great,” Maglor introduced himself briefly, standing tall and meeting the expectant glances with an easy -if somewhat haughty- smile as most heads in the room turned to identify the owner of the powerful, enchanting voice. 

He let the silence stretch a bit longer than necessary as everybody took in his tall, imposing frame. 

“I would like to insist on the importance of Doctor Feldman’s remarks,” he began in his powerful, enthralling voice. “The balance in the biosperhere is reaching its tipping point, scientists tell us. Manufacturing recyclable goods still has an environmental cost and an impact, madam,“ he addressed the woman who had just harassed the speaker. “And unless we start regenerating ecosystems instead of irresponsibly depleting them, the ability of Earth to sustain us, as Doctor Feldman pointed out, will be dramatically and irreversibly compromised.” 

He made a dramatic pause, then, but nobody dared interrupt him; the audience was captivated by his powerful voice. “Here we are, about eighty something of the supposedly most environmentally aware organizations in the world gathered in this room today. How many of us, I wonder, have at least taken care of offsetting the carbon impact of our travelling here? Why wasn’t this meeting convened over video conference, to begin with? Why are we all so set against even considering minimal changes in our lifestyles? And what can we say of those tens of thousands people jumping and screaming down there at the Circus Maximus? Did anyone bother to figure out how many solar panels, field hospitals, doctors, nurses, teachers, training courses, free seeds, irrigation systems, reforestation programs could be paid for with just the money those people have spent since midday in plastic bottles of water to cool down from their humanitarian efforts?” 

“Well, what have you done yourself, then?” the woman asked bluntly, offended but undaunted by his imposing attitude and his contemptuous words. As she turned to face him Maglor coud descry the logo of a major international financial institution on her badge.

“The carbon cost of my journey here is being compensated by my organization. The amount will buy spare pieces to repair a waste treatment system in a small hamlet in Kenya, and pay for two years’ salary of the technical team in charge of maintenance and operation. I invite you all to visit Greenwood Great’s website and search the growing list of our small-scale, community-based environmental projects open for financial support around the world. It won’t be too late when you’re back home to start offsetting...” he added with a wicked grin. 

“As for myself…” he continued, “well, my trousers are hand-made out of wool coming from a free range sheep I know by name, and my shirt was woven from organic grown hemp I personally planted, grew, harvested and spun. My shoes are of cow leather -a cow that died of old age, I should add- and I don’t think that you are all that interested in learning about my underwear…" he challenged, flashing his most charming smile and rising his right hand to his waist, as the audience erupted in amused laughter and scattered applauses. 

The woman, though, seemed unimpressed by his antics and clearly vexed by his approach. “So, your demagogic speech is solely aimed at promoting the fundraising efforts of your organization, is that what this entire utopia is about, Mr. Lauren?” she challenged, looking around for agreement. 

“I am happy to see we both agree that carbon neutral is way far from enough, madam!” he joked, drawing chuckles from the audience. “Yet I am afraid this is the best utopia we can offer for now, in order to grow awareness of the dire situation the ecosystems that support life around the world are undergong at the moment,” he shrugged. “At least, until Gucci and Versace start producing truly ecologically-sound, carbon negative, upcyclable _stiletti_ ,” he added mildly, earning more laughter. 

“I think Mr. Lauren has just expressed what I meant,” the speaker chimed in hastily. “And I congratulate his organization for their well-oriented efforts. Producing in ecologically or so-called “sustainably” manner is no longer enough…We need to start reparing the damage we have caused -and continue to cause- in ecosystems, or else the very systems that sustain life will start collapsing irreversibly, sooner than later. Once feedback loops are triggered, the cascading impacts will be impossible to stop. But there’s no need to move back to the Stone Age. As you yourself said, after all, ma’am,” he addressed the woman who had spoken before with a gentle smile, “technology would allow us to be more efficient and less wasteful, if we only cared to use it for that very purpose, instead of being obsessed with endless, aimless growth.”

“So, you disapprove of events like today’s _Live 8-end poverty_ concert?” another voice asked from the opposite corner of the room. 

The speaker sighed with hardly disguised exasperation and lowered his head for a second to hide his disappointment. Maglor shook his head and shrugged briefly, meeting the speaker’s tired glance as he walked to the door. With a heavy sigh Dr Feldman tried to put on a convincing smile and started explaining one more time, while the Elf closed the door behind his back. 

˜˜˜***˜˜˜ 

“I heard you threatened the audience with a strip show yesterday....” 

“And I got us an incredible amount of hits in our website, half of which, I am ready to wager, shall turn into new registered members…Which must be the only positive thing to come out of that disappointing meeting, may Sauron confound them all!” 

Maglor’s mood was at its foulest and most bitter, Celeborn noted as he took an empty chair and sat by his friend's side in the small patio at their favourite _trattoria_ in Piazza del Popolo _._ The waitress was already there with another glass of their dark brown, home crafted beer and a friendly smile.

“Shall I bring the menu or you’ll rather wait for your friends, Mr. Silvertree?” 

“We’ll wait, thanks, Claudia.” 

Celeborn sipped at the perfect crown of foam with delight and took a long draught before turning his piercing eyes to his friend. “Still, I don’t think that challenging and insulting representatives of international financial organizations is what we meant when we agreed to keep a low profile about our activities,” he admonished in what he expected was a mildly warning tone. “We are Stewards, Maglor, we are not here to force change or impose solutions on the Edain.. that was never the role of the Eldar before the Secondborn…”

“…While they, once again, follow the path of the Shadow and destroy what is left of Arda in the process of destroying themselves?”

It was an old, recurring quarrel between them, which would most probably end in a sour argument about battles and betrayals that had happened long ago in lands that no longer existed. Not wanting to be dragged into that ages-old confrontation, Celeborn shrugged, sighed and changed subject.

“I missed you at dinner. I had to endure Daeron’s ranting, _unabridged version_ , about modern music…” 

That elicited a spiteful snort from Maglor. Celebron sighed. If he had to guess, he would bet that his friend had surely spent the night roaming the empty streets of Rome, listening to long-forgotten songs of ancient, wise stones who knew everything about yearning, and mingling his voice with that of the oldest milestones in _Via Appia_ , alternatively mourning and raging at a time long past.

“You ever doubt, Celeborn?” the Noldo asked in a coarse whisper. ”Doubt that there’s a reason for our being here, doubt that Eärendil still cruises the skies, that Arien and Tilion still drive the sun and the moon home to Valinor every day and night, that anyone remembers that we are still here?” he continued in a voice that bled with ages of anguish and despair. 

It happened from time to time to all of them, but Maglor’s bouts of despondency were unpredictable and almost undecipherable to his friends. He would drown in bottomless despair for undetermined lengths of time until something happened that succeeded in bringing him out of his gloom. He seemed to resent the burden of that long, hopeless fight more deeply than his friends. But then, he was an Exile -and a doomed kinslayer- on the first place, Celeborn reminded himself.

“Well, well, well, the sex-symbol of the environmental awareness,” a gleeful voice chimed in before Celeborn could reply. A happy Daeron sat at their table with a wide grin, fully disregarding Maglor’s feral grunt and Celeborn’s warning glance. “I’ve been thinking,” the bard announced, spreading a number of brochures over the table and bowing with exaggerate flourishes and winks to the delighted waitress as she brought him his customary dry vermouth. 

“Ah! The flavour of Tuscan gorse! I swear this tastes better every passing year, sweetheart, your family recipe should be praised in everlasting hymns!” 

“It is Roman gorse, as is the recipe and the family, as you well know!” the girl complained in fake outrage. “I myself pick it up in the hills of Frascati! But I won’t object to the songs!” she added with a giggle, as she obviously knew of his talents. 

“So, you’ve been thinking…” Celeborn asked their voluble friend as the girl walked away, her clear laughter ringing in the patio. 

“Look, we could set up a new line of organic cotton underwear, with Maglor as brand ambassador…No, I’m speaking seriously, my friend,” he added, undaunted by the unmistakable menace in Maglor’s body language. “We’ve got at least fifty e-mails requesting organic cotton underwear since yesterday…What’s wrong with him?” Daeron questioned Celeborn, who raised his brows quizzically. “I told you, Celeborn, he always gets depressed in Rome. Are we going to have lunch or what? My treat today, see, I’ve made a fair amount!” he chuckled, showing a fistful of coins and banknotes in his hand.

“You’ve been juggling again, haven’t you?” Celeborn asked with a disapproving glare. 

“Why, yes, but today is some kind of holiday, it is allowed, Celeborn, and the guys were _so bad_ at it _,_ I couldn’t resist to show them. At least, I’ve managed to enjoy myself after yesterday’s suffering…Don’t know how the War of Wrath sounded, but it couldn’t have been much worse than yesterday’s bad excuse for music…” 

“Look, isn’t that Thranduil over there? Where has he been?” Celeborn pointed at the tall, nimble elf elbowing his way among the crowds that flooded the decorated stone stairs leading down from the Pincio Gardens into Piazza del Popolo, a place favoured by Romans and tourists alike for a leisurely stroll before Sunday meal. 

“Where? In Pincio Gardens since very early this morning,” Daeron snorted, “trying to awaken the trees…” 

Maglor spewed a mouthful of beer at that. Celeborn calmly offered Daeron a napkin, raising his brows in silent question. 

“I am glad to see that you’re actually awake, Maglor,” Daeron grunted, wiping his face and shrugging towards Celeborn. “Don’t ask. You know, he never truly accepted that the Onodrim were gone for good…” 

Celeborn sighed in mock exasperation as their tall, blond friend crossed the crowded square looking no different from the hordes of north European tourists enjoying Rome’s awe-inspiring sights. 

“I’ve seen two poplars running for their lives earlier this morning,” Daeron informed him very seriously as Thranduil nodded to his friends and sat at their table. “I thought you would like to know, my friend, congratulations!” 

“ _Vino dei Castelli, signor_ Greenwood!” The waitress’ clear voice cut Thranduil’s remark. He leaned back to allow her place a cool jar of red wine and a plain glass before him. 

“ _Tante grazie_ , Claudia,” he said, looking her in the eye and nodding in dismissal. Celeborn held back an amused smile as the girl obviously fought the urge to curtsy before him. Thranduil’s manners and his very demeanour prompted that kind of respect, no matter how worn out his attire might look. 

“I brought you the menu,” the waitress added when she recovered from the plain awe that always threatened to overwhelm her in Thranduil’s presence, “but my mother says she has fresh ravioli stuffed with ricotta and spinach…” 

“We won’t fight the _mamma_!" Daeron claimed dramatically. “Let’s us have her ravioli and then die in bliss!” 

“Ravioli for four, then?” the girl asked her other guests, amused by Daeron’s antics but not to the point of forgetting her duties. 

“So, how did it go?” Celeborn asked Thranduil once the waitress left for the kitchen. 

The former king of Lasgalen had poured himself a generous draught of the clear red, cool wine, and was drinking with open delight, although, Celeborn knew, he was, once again, mourning his cherished Dorwinion, the likes of which they had yet to find in those sinful times of boutique wineries. 

“I hate this city,” Thranduil sentenced with plain disdain, placing the glass on the table beside the jar and moving both under the cover provided by the green and white sunshade. “All those ruins and scattered stones, everything smells of decay here,” he complained with derision. “I cannot stand it. I bet even the trees would sulk, were they to actually wake up and start speaking…” 

“You know why there are no trees in the desert?” Maglor’s voice sounded low and deep as Aüle’s deepest forges, if he happened to have them underground, Celeborn thought distractedly, as the Noldo leaned forth to get closer to unsuspecting Thranduil, who knew better than to offer an answer. 

“Because they cannot hold their grip on the sand. There is no soil, no stone, where your beloved trees can fix themselves… and thus they die…” 

Thranduil shrugged slightly and moved to pour himself another glass, but Maglor’s charred left hand shot up from under the table and caught the other’s wrist in a firm grip. Celeborn tensed, reading himself in case the conversation escalated into something more physical.

“You speak lowly of what you’re too deaf to perceive, Wood Elf," the Noldo spat out contemptuously, his voice a wild hiss, his dark eyes, Celeborn was sure, blazing behind the dark sunglasses. 

Thranduil didn’t move or said a word. 

“There were stones before there were trees, and stones shall there be still when there’s nothing else left to give us shelter…” Maglor continued in a hoarse voice. “And if you delve deep enough, you can still hear the echoes of Ilúvatar’s music resounding within the heart of Arda’s stone foundations…your trees delve deep in stones, live because of them! Your trees eat stones, you fool, and sing of them, too! 

“Dad! Look! I found him! Mr. Lauren, he’s here! ” a high-pitched voice shouted in delight right behind the four elves. A small boy with curling reddish hair had ran up to Maglor and was pointingback to the entrance of the patio, where a tall, dark-haired man and a red-haired woman unsuccessfully urged the child back. 

“Doctor Feldman,” Maglor said then, releasing Thranduil’s wrist and standing up, a forced smile upon his face. Almost immediately, the child grabbed his arm and started dragging him back to his parents. Much to Celeborn’s amazement, Maglor allowed it with a soft half-smile on his face. 

“Please, accept my apologies, Mr. Lauren,” Dr. Feldman was saying as they almost reached their table and he released Maglor’s arm from his son grip. “George was very impressed by your words yesterday. He’s been harassing me all morning because he wanted to learn the name of that sheep you mentioned...” 

Maglor’s amused laughter rang through the patio. 

“The sheep that provided the wool for my trousers?" The child nodded seriously, looking up expectantly. “Her name’s Lossë, child,“ Maglor said then, crouching until his face was level with the child's and taking off his sunglasses. Not for the first time Celeborn was surprised by the warmth that suffused the Noldo’s grim demeanour when dealing with children.

“Lossë,” the child repeated thoughtfully. “Do you mind if I name one of our new lambs back home after her?” he asked seriously. That elicited another amused laugh from the Elf. 

“On the contrary, she’ll be honoured... do you shear yours for wool?

“He’s fostering a herd of sheep in the hamlet where we live,” Dr. Feldman chimed in, as Maglor ruffled the child’s hair affectionately. “He might have wool to dress up the whole community if we let him... Apologies again Mr. Lauren, for interrupting your meal, but I am glad to have the chance to congratulate you again. I checked your website today and I followed a link to a list of projects at “Green Watchers”, I hope that was what you meant...” 

“Yes, Green Watchers is a sister site, and it is me who apologizes, Dr. Feldman, I couldn’t stay until the end. Your presentation was very powerful, and your truths so obvious for those who would want to hear…” 

“If they only would,” the man agreed with a sigh. “Anyway, it was very refreshing to hear your approach, and I’m most impressed by your organization’s activities. Oh, this is my wife, Susan.“ 

“Glad to meet you, Mr. Lauren,” the woman said with a deep smile, shaking Maglor’s hand eagerly and waving towards their table as well. “I cannot tell you how much we appreciated your words yesterday, it was a ray of hope in such a discouraging meeting…” 

“Anyway, this is my card, please, do not hesitate to contact me if I can be of any assistance to you, your organization or your projects, there are never enough people like you. It is good to know that you’re out there doing what you can,” Dr. Feldman chimed in again. 

“Look Dad, another basilisk!” the child was getting restless now that he’s curiosity had been satisfied and was pulling at his fathers’ hand, pointing to the centre of the piazza. 

“Obelisk, George!" he smiled kindly and shook Maglor’s hand again. “You see, we’re collecting pictures of obelisks… and you were about to have lunch. Apologies, gentlemen,” he addressed them then. Celeborn nodded and smiled, enthralled by the whole conversation and Maglor’s friendly demeanour. “Thanks again, Mr. Lauren, you can never guess what a difference your words made to me... Keep in touch!” Dr. Feldman almost shouted, following his son to the crowded square. 

“He loves his job,” Dr. Feldman’s wife told Maglor hurriedly, holding his hand between hers, an earnest look on her deep green eyes, “but at times the weight is too much to carry alone… It was good to hear you yesterday, Mr. Lauren...you gave us hope and enthusiasm, and I’m most deeply thankful to you for that! If there’s ever anything we can do to help your organization, please, give us a call.” 

“He’s not alone, Mrs. Feldman,” Maglor sighed, returning the comforting pressure to her hand. “And he’ll never be…” 

She waved them goodbye and crossed the busy piazza to join her family. Maglor watched them for a moment, then sat back at their table with a deep sigh.

“We should enlist him right now, poor man,” Daeron sighed. “Come, Maglor, you don’t want your ravioli to get cold!”

“We need him where he is now,” Celeborn sighed, not looking at Maglor, who picked at his food in silence. “He _is_ _needed_ where he is now. I am sure he’ll be among the first to receive longevity treatment, and he’ll be able to make paramount contributions to earth sciences before joining us…” 

“And what if he refuses?”

Celeborn smiled. Today Daeron was excelling at his self-appointed role of official appeaser of the murderous Noldo, giving voice to what surely were Maglor’s concerns as well. “Then, we’ll have to pay him a visit and tell him a tale or two,” he shrugged, savouring the exquisite ravioli. 

“So,” Maglor finally said with an apparently unconcerned voice, leaning forth, “what about that organic underwear on-line sale, Daeron? You never got to explain what my percentage should be…” 

“Organic underwear? What is he talking about?”

Celeborn smiled guardedly and sipped another long draught of beer while Thranduil looked around wildly, completely baffled by their rapidly changing conversation. With a chuckle, Daeron launched into an amusingly detailed account of his next project. 

Maglor’s eyes met his, and Celeborn nodded silently. The cloud had passed, fortunately, leaving behind the usual sadness and a new hope. They were making a difference, and that was comforting in a way. 

They would make it to the bitter end, he knew, and that was drawing near, he could feel it in the air, in the hurried pace of things. And Maglor was right, he thought, watching his friends ease away the last threads of bitterness and anger in the Noldo. The stones were the foundations, and the soil was the key for trees to thrive anywhere.

 _“A stone and a tree, my lady,”_ he thought wistfully. _“A fitting imagery indeed!”_

**TBC**


	2. Coming Home

**Camp _“New Future.” Somewhere in Patagonia, South America. Elven New Year, 2093 in Edain chronology_** _._

The meeting room for Greenwood Great’s board of directors was…unusual, to say the least. To begin with, it was perched amidst the foliage of a magnificent specimen of southern beech, a perennial variety of _Nothofagus._

To a stranger’s eye it would seem the result of a passing whim, a fanciful indulgence by the coolest designer of the moment with a blank check from a multi-billion firm; an exclusive resort where potential clients and bribable officers could be flattered, persuaded to indulge in their more unspeakable pleasures and then conveniently blackmailed into reasonable behaviours that, surprisingly enough, would agree with the company’s best interests.

But, had the stranger been subjected to that treatment before, she would soon acknowledge her mistake. The set up was too austere, almost spartan; no extravagant pieces of furniture, art or decor, no ubiquitous technological appliances, nor holograms, or patches for brainlink connections available, nor old-fashioned glass bottles of intoxicating substances on sight.

Greenwood Great’s board members weren’t more according to standard than the place where they met. Attired in casual and well-worn outdoors clothing, they looked like four young executives in an expensive vacation, enjoying an exotic fishing trip with some thrilling extreme sports on schedule, rather than the executive council of the most powerful organization on earth.

Had the stranger been granted access to their meetings, she would have been utterly disappointed, for they spoke rarely, and in a language unintelligible to human ears. The glitter in their bottomless eyes and their knowing glances would have frozen the stranger in place, and would have convinced her of what the urban legend maintained: that Greenwood Great’s executive board was otherworldly.

“I don’t think _that_ particular type of demonstration leads to the fulfilment of any oganizational objective,” the blond one was complaining, comfortably sprawled in a hammock chair, pointing at media footage and reviews of some of their organization’s recent activities. 

“But it is _great_ fun,” another answered, a tall fellow with dark chestnut hair and eyes, long, restless fingers that were always drumming, as if dreading silence. “Your father possessed an extraordinary lack of sense of humour, Thranduil, and I do not let pass an ennin without praising the Starkindler that you have been blessed with that very same gift,” he added in a more than educated voice that had moved generations uncounted to tears. 

“Daeron…” The growl was menacing, almost feral. 

“Unfortunately, in this case, I must agree…on both issues,” a third one chimed in, smiling wickedly, putting aside a handheld screen he had been looking at for the tenth time, as if hoping something would change between readings. He was tall, too, the four of them were, and with a long, silver, uncommonly glistening mane. He wasn’t old, though -at least didn’t look in his old age- except for the eyes, which seemed pools of knowledge and deep sorrow, same as his companions’. 

“Celeborn, you too?” the blond one’s voice held a tinge of annoyance that did not fool the others. They knew each other all too well, for better and worse. 

“I, too, agree with them.”

The fourth member of the meeting turned from the window and met his colleagues with a blazing gaze; eyes strangely alight in a pale face framed by wild, raven hair. He lifted a heavily charred hand and pulled aside a dark lock from his face, his powerful voice echoing with merriment. “Even if I didn’t have the…pleasure, of knowing your lord father beyond a passing acquaintance in the woods of Ossiriand, and strange as it may sound, I support Daeron’s claim about your lack of sense of humour, inherited or otherwise,” he added in a soft yet magical voice that stirred images of times before Time, a voice that could move, as his own father’s had done back then, the hearts and the wills of those who listened. 

“So, it is true, then,” Daeron whispered, master of his own trade, hitting the exact mix of worry, grief, relief, amusement and expectation with unconcerned ease. “Maglor agrees with me, so this is definitely the end of Arda.” 

The chorus of raucous laughter echoed in the forest.

**_Headquarters of the World Convention for the Environment. Paris, France. May, 2093._ **

The meeting room was empty, except for the grey-haired man at the head of the long, polished, sustainably-sourced teakwood table. Doctor Cyrus Feldman was taking his time, closing down his old personal handheld computer and gathering his old-fashioned, frowned-upon paper notes, as he struggled to get a firm grip on mixed feelings of anger and relief.

It had been his last speech before the Directorate and the Scientific Board, and it had been no different from many others that had taken place at that same meeting room in the Parisian headquarters of the WCE, the World Convention for the Environment, during his long years of duty. 

In fact, it had not been the WCE back when he had started working there, two lifetimes and almost two centuries ago. It had been the Environment, Food and Agricultural World System, EFAWS back then.

Since the Convention had replaced the World System back in 2025, with an apparent mandate for effecting much needed and urgent change, the old agencies had changed their soup letter…and that was about the only difference, Doctor Feldman thought with the bitter taste of defeat on his lips. Politics of inaction and delay had been, to no insider’s surprise, reinforced, in place of much needed immediate action.

 _Stop it,_ he chided himself. _You had your last chance and it went as expected, you’re too old to have hopes of changing anything, not in your last stand…_

All in all, it had been a very collected last stand before the Scientific Board, the Secretary General and the members of the Directorate, most of them remotedly connected since travel nowadays was very restricted, and a handful of guests. He had joked, had summed up the terrifying figures that did no longer frighten anyone -except for the fact that they were all dramatically accurate, even the ones that were twenty years old- and even had indulged -without the Secretary General’s knowledge or authorization- in the wicked pleasure of introducing an indigenous, mythological tale about the end of the world, something he knew the President of the Directorate -a politician- disliked with the same passionate aversion he held for honest scientists, dutiful technical advisors and responsible bureaucrats. 

They had listened, and nodded, and showed surprise and even amazement at the right moments.

They had looked properly chastised by the blindness of their predecessors and had rejected all responsibility in the next breathe.

 _“We don’t care”,_ they seemed to be thinking. _“It wasn’t our fault and now there is little we can do, just look ahead and hope for the best.”_ Only, there wasn’t much “ahead” left to look forward to, and whatever _best_ might be hoped for would surely not happen for many millions who toiled and grappled with worsening conditions on a daily basis.

That was what enraged Cyrus, for they hadn’t understood a thing, they hadn’t learned from past mistakes and they intended to change absolutely nothing. Wilful blindness had taken humankind to this dire situation, and wilful blindness would be the end of it. 

“Shit!” He hit the table in despair.

He had promised himself that he would take it calmly, but old habits died hard. He couldn’t help tears of frustration welling in his eyes as he looked around for the last time, taking in the walls that had witnessed so many lost battles and opportunities, so many sterile debates, and so many agreements based on general consensus rather than on common good or even sense. 

“Cyrus! You need help?” 

He turned around slowly. He was in no particular hurry to face this Secretary General -and former long-time friend, before politics and career, the current Secretary General’s, more precisely- had come between them.

Still, there was no polite way he could ignore him any longer. “I am old, but I can still take care of my things, Mister Secretary.” 

“Of course you can, my friend,” the other agreed jovially, entering the room with the satisfaction of one who has downed the biggest prize in the flock without risk or effort, the satisfaction of the vain, Cyrus thought with resentment.

“It was a wonderful speech, Cyrus, very moving indeed,” the Secretary continued, blind to the disgust that oozed off Cyrus. “I could see that everybody was touched by your passion, even those soulless officers of the Scientific Board, you old fox!” he laughed as he slapped Cyrus on the back. “What a shame that you finally chose retirement,” the Secretary added more soberly. “It is a true loss for all. Your voice is respected everywhere, and I am sure that your legacy will be of the utmost importance for all of us. We are facing difficult times, but your example will help us choose the right path, my friend!” He looked up expectantly, as if awaiting the ovation that usually crowned his speeches. 

Cyrus considered a cynical answer briefly, and then settled for an old-style confrontation. 

“I didn’t see many handkerchiefs around, Mister Secretary,” he said acidly. “And I don’t think that my voice is respected anywhere…seen as it is rarely heard nowadays…”

That had hurt, Cyrus raged inside as he finished gathering his belongings. When his voice had become too uncomfortable for politicians, they had silenced him in the most effective way, by hallowing him and labelling him as the “most respected expert in the field.”

Soon he found out that he could talk to hardly anybody and about almost nothing: neither warning about the speed with which tipping points in the balance of many life supporting ecosytems were being triggered, nor pointing out wrong policies, never ever mentioning necessary adjustments and sacrifices, or mounting risks…

Every warning sign that contradicted the triumphant official narrative of success was banished from public information, labelled under “unneccesary panic,” or “experts say,” and filed in “restricted access” or “not general interest”, while trend-makers, influencers and public communicators ranted relentlessly against the prophets of catastrophe and doom, extolling instead the dubious virtues of untested technologies, isolated interventions, risky but fanciful geoengineering projects and plainly criminal laissez-faire policies. 

“But you must be glad,” he added scathingly, “for as my data continues to be proven true, it will be good for you that I’m retired. It will be up to you to explain at your leisure how you knew this had been happening for years and why you did nothing to prevent it!” 

“Oh, come on, Cyrus!” the Secretary was as resilient as the best politician, Cyrus noted not for the first time. “That’s unfair! You know, as well as I do, that we did not have a way to know whether your figures were right or wrong… It would have been irresponsible to try and change the whole lifestyle of the world based upon… DATA!” he said, warning him to let the matter lie.

Cyrus had never been a quitter, and he wouldn’t concede defeat easily.

“Well, let me tell you something, Mister Secretary. First, it wasn’t the lifestyle of a whole planet, but of less than a tenth of its more privileged population, and second, it was never a choice between returning to the Stone Age -as you liked to present it to effectively undermine the argument- and doing NOTHING and let hell _and_ high water come to us, which is exactly what you, what WE have done, NOTHING! to prevent what now is coming!” he shouted.

He shook his head in despair. “I was in Eastern Africa with your grandafather in the 80s of last century, John,” he continued in the tired voice of a man who had lived through more than a hundred years or erosion, deforestation, famine and devastating political choices, and had survived to see how nothing had changed. “And we knew then, we knew that it was no natural cause which had turned the monsoon away for a decade. How many people have died in those man-made hells since then, only God knows, but we are doubly guilty, John, because we didn’t stop it then, and because we let it come to this, through indolence and negligence, and selfish greed and plain old stupidity!” 

“Excuse me…” a soft voice and a knock at the doorframe interrupted the outburst. 

Cyrus, though, was at full steam now. He paid no heed to the intrusion. “And let me tell you something else, Mister Secretary. These here are not _soulless officers_ in the Scientific Board but good men and women, extraordinary scientists who have been burned out by the greed and inefficiency of most of you, shameless bureaucrats and politicians!” he gasped for air, but, too stubborn to concede defeat before his last word was said, he continued in a hoarse voice. “They are not moved by my words but by the despair and impotence that we all share! What the hell are you doing here!” he raged then at the intruder, who waited patiently by the door. 

“Oh, I had forgotten!” the Secretary turned a friendly smile to the stranger, unaffected but Cyrus’ tirade. “Please, forgive me, Mister Silverstone, do come in!” 

“Silvertree,” the stranger corrected in an even, beautiful voice, as he stepped into the room with graceful, fluid movements. 

Cyrus had noticed him among the audience, a tall man with long silver hair, loosely braided and strangely glistening against his impeccable tweed jacket, a stylish raincoat neatly folded over his lap. It was not his hair what had caught his attention, though, but the glitter of his grey, steely eyes. 

“Silvertree, that’s it. Doctor Feldman, this is Mister Silvertree, who showed great interest in meeting you. He is the president of a very large corporation and an important donor to the WCE,” the Secretary added in the honeyed voice he used when he wanted to flatter a potential benefactor. 

That tone of voice also had the unintended effect of turning Cyrus against whomever it was directed to, a simple precaution born from years of experience. He eyed the stranger with immediate dislike and shook his extended hand without enthusiasm. 

“Greenwood Great is a Social Corporation, Doctor Feldman,” the stranger said pleasantly. “We have been investing in forest conservation for many a year now, among other activities. I would be honoured if you agreed to visit some of our projects and give us your opinion…” 

Cyrus was tired, and the feeling of “been there, heard that” was almost overwhelming now. He had no time or patience for another eager, enthusiast, zillionaire philanthropist intent on saving a planet that had been condemned without trial years ago, most probably through some of the activities that had made the man his billions, too.

“I’m sorry, Mister Silvertree, but I’m retired, as you may have heard today. I don’t take part in projects anymore. You can ask the Secretary here to send one of his assistants in the donors’ department, or you can call the WCE University, forestry department, to find an advisor,” he said gruffly. “I’m going home.” 

The stranger seemed undisturbed by his grumpiness. “And where would that be?” he asked in his soft manner, genuine interest showing in his voice. 

Cyrus looked at those bottomless grey eyes and stood still for a moment, holding on to his backpack as a myriad emotions hurled inside and an almost forgotten memory stirred in him. _“Home is a time, not a place,”_ he wanted to say. _”A time when Susan and little George were alive, and we believed that what we were doing mattered.”_ Images of the many houses that had sheltered him in his long and wandering years flashed in quick succession before his eyes, leaving behind the same old feeling of emptiness.

He blinked twice, and turned his eyes from that compassionate silver gaze. “That, sir,” he said in a polite but cold tone, “is none of your business.” He turned to pick up his own raincoat from the rack beside the window. It was pouring down with a vengeance over Paris. 

“I found your mythological reference very fitting,” the stranger continued in his calm voice, unperturbed by Cyrus’ open hostility.“The end of the world heralded by the return of the darkness…even if metaphorical, it is very fitting, indeed.” 

“Scientists called it global dimming” Cyrus said flatly. 

“I know you do, and that its dangers are not mythological,” the other answered playfully, holding the backpack while Cyrus put his raincoat on. “And I know that you said in your speech that it was a Yámana myth, but I was glad to read in the abstract that it is actually a Selk’nam one,” he added, a glint of mischief in his serious face. 

“Oh! So there was at least one person who was actually paying attention among such a chosen and illustrious audience, after all! I actually misquoted the reference on purpose…you brought a small ray of light to my last speech, it was my pleasure, Mister Silvertree,” he said, a bit warmer this time, retrieveing his backpack and shaking again the stranger’s hand. “I’m sorry I cannot be of any assistance to you, though. Now, Mister Secretary…” And without waiting for further comment, he put his hat on and strode away from the office and then the building without looking back. 

He walked three blocks down the street from the Convention headquarters to the old building where he lived when in Paris, heedless of the rain.

Spring in Paris was not what it used to be, but then, the North Atlantic Drift had slowed down dramatically in the last decades -exactly as they had warned it would, back in 2005- disrupted by the increased melting of glaciers and sea ice, caused in turn for excess in carbon concentration in the atmosphere -among other factors. Since its moderating effect on Western Europe climate patterns had begun to disappear, now snows -as well as heavy rains and dangerous sleet storms- were a common occurrence in mid-May, as well as in mid-July, he thought with dry humour. 

“Doctor Feldman!” a youthful, warm voice dragged him from his thoughts as he entered the old building. Claire, the young concierge, greeted him with her usual smile. “How did it go?” 

“As expected, child,” he shrugged. “It was a parting speech. Nothing relevant can come from that…” 

“You can never tell,” she said, with her enthusiastic optimism, escorting him to the elevator. “You cannot know when or where you make the difference for anyone,” she added, patting his arm comfortingly.

“Well, child, at least you do know,” he smiled gratefully, “for you keep making the difference every day for this old man!” he added, stepping into the elevator and welcoming his first moments of solitude in the day, as the doors closed silently before him. 

When he had been offered to be among the first people to undergo life-extending genetic treatment in the early years of the twenty–first century, he had agreed out of duty. He felt he had a responsibility towards the world, as the most renowned climate and environmental scientist of his time. As such, he had consented, accepting as well the binding terms of the operation -the treatment or its after-effects could not be discussed with anyone.

It meant that he was alone.

He had already been, when he decided to go through the procedures, for Susan and their only child had died almost ten years before that, in a plane crash. At one-hundred and forty-nine now, he was hopelessly and utterly alone, for none of his colleagues or friends could follow the path he was treading, his desperate fight between yielding and resisting.

They said that since he had already been an old man when he underwent longevity treatment, it had only worsened the natural melancholy of old age.

He did not know. At times he felt that he had been granted a painful awareness, and he felt alternatively aggravated and grateful for it. _“Longevity is not meant for the human race,”_ he had once written down in his personal journal, the only place where he could make such statements, _“for it brings along an unbearable burden of understanding that breeds unbearable sorrow and compassion.”_

The old elevator stopped smoothly and he walked ten paces to his door, closing it behind him and hanging the keys on the rack -a white-tail deer antler gathered in a northern forest many autumns ago- beside many other keys that opened different doors around the world, some now lost forever under the waves of relentlessly rising oceans.

The raincoat and backpack went to another makeshift rack; a chestnut sleeper salvaged from a forgotten railway line that had connected two once lively and now abandoned cities. He placed the handheld computer device he still insistedon using on a side table, and picked the mail from the ancient quern where Claire usually left it for his perusal. He gave it a cursory glance as he walked towards the kitchen and took out the tablecloth. 

The doorbell caught him by surprise, standing in the middle of the kitchen, studying the intriguing envelope he had found among bills -some public utilities still used printed invoicing, in spite of the strict regulations against the use of paper- and the few restricted publications that held on, too, to that ancient and energy-inefficient way of distribution, to his unashamed pleasure. 

“Your dinner, Doctor Feldman,” Claire smiled, picking the tablecloth from his hand and walking to the kitchen with the familiarity of a routine, yet lovingly undertaken task. “The cook sends his congratulations, it’d seem,” she said conversationally, setting the table with an easiness born out of practice. “Onion soup, your favourite!” she said cheerfully, “And rye bread... and…look! He’s sending a bottle of that white wine you praised so much last week…is everything all right, Doctor Feldman?” she asked worriedly, at the perplexed look in his eyes. 

“Do you happen to know how and when this came in, Claire?” he asked, waving the envelope. 

“Yes, of course. This afternoon, short after you left, a messenger delivered it by hand. He insisted to deliver it personally to your door, we had a bit of an argument there…” she smiled briefly. It was almost impossible to have an argument with that sweet creature, as Cyrus knew from experience, having found himself many times in the receiving end of her caring nature. “I noticed, too, because it’s a most unusual envelope, a beautiful one,” she added thoughtfully. 

“Yes it is,” Cyrus nodded. “Thanks again, Claire, and have a good night!”

 _Beautiful indeed,_ he thought, as her footsteps faded and the door slammed shut. He fingered it with care. It was vegetal fibre paper, an almost extravagant luxury in those times, but he wasn’t able to identify what particular fibre gave it that grey, almost silvery appeal. The handwriting was elegant, artistic, and he needed not see the _“Greenwood Great”_ signet on the wax seal to connect it to the mysterious stranger he had met that evening. 

He set it aside, sat and had dinner.

He finished his dinner with a silent toast to “Le Fournil”, the restaurant that had catered for his meals for as long as he had owned that apartment, carried the empty plates and glass to the sink, placed the bottle of wine in the fridge and went to sit on his favourite armchair to savour a glass of his favourite brandy while pondering that unexpected riddle. 

Cyrus Feldman’s Parisian home resembled an ethnological museum. It was full of strange artefacts, textiles, carvings, pictures and devices gathered around the world in his long years. Most had been gifts from grateful residents, co-workers or beneficiaries of his relentless work as the most renowned geoscientist of two centuries. And most held memories of peoples, of projects, of betrayals, of unexpected victories and foreseeable defeats. Pieces of wood, rocks, seeds, pottery, textiles, delicate handcrafts and hand-made tools piled up in his home and were the true repository of the memories and life-long personal, professional and spiritual experiences that made up what Doctor Feldman was. 

He lit up a couple of candles and a side lamp, and let the night take over the rest of his living-room. He leaned forth and picked up a lost-wax cast, metal letter-opener, a gift from a brave half-Dogon smith who had tried –and briefly succeeded- to revive the ancient blacksmithing tradition of those wise ancient people of western Africa. 

_“Dr. Feldman, should you reconsider and accept visiting our project, please contact the Paris number below._

_C.Silvertree_

_55362659_

It was too dark to make out anything clearly, but Cyrus Feldman was almost sure that the ink in which the message was written -most assuredly with a quill pen- was hand made, too. 

As he turned the envelope again in his hand, delighting in the soft touch of that unknown material, two printed photographs fell from it. He picked them up carefully. Mister Silvertree could be seen in both, standing in the midst of what looked like an ordered village in a rural area. The buildings showed a stunning resemblance to various types of indigenous structures that could be found repeatedly arund the world since the Neolithic revolution _._

 _“Another theme park of lost civilizations,”_ he thought with anymosity.

But then, there were the telltale set ups of sun and wind-powered grids, a thriving forest that was not contained but rather mingled with the buildings, ordered and healthy-looking orchards, wildlife, smiling people and, above all, children.

Children in the outdoors with happy, carefree smiles on their faces, surrounding the tall, fair-faced, smiling person he had just met that evening, play-working in teams in the orchards instead of confined in closed rooms, their learning supervised through bright screens.

He closed his eyes and tried to recall his impressions of that man.

All he remembered was the sense of calmness, peacefulness that surrounded him. “ _We’ve been investing in forest conservation for many a year, now, among other things,”_ he had said. He had surely known that he would be denied, and had made sure to pique Dr. Feldman’s curiosity with that splendidly wrapped, cryptically devised message. 

Cyrus dozed off in his armchair, assaulted by nightmarish dreams of starving children in the countless camps of hunger he had seen along his years.

Faced with the most uncertain environmental future fuelled by a short-lived period of triumphant prosperity, and with fertility rates affected by widespread chemicals and atmospheric pollution, human birth rates had started a slow but steady decrease in the last decades, no matter what the Convention said. It was out of their control. It was just happening. And the sight of those happy children, growing up in what looked like an almost natural environment had moved him more than he had expected. 

A quick search offered nothing in return, but now the nagging memory had returned, driving him back in time to a stay in Rome, long in the past but still a treasured memory, for those had been the last days he had spent with his family.

Great Greenwood, or Greenwood Great, he was sure, had been mentioned back then by that dark-haired, intense stranger who had been the only one to side with him in that fateful meeting in which things might have been steered towards their right course and where instead nothing had happened -as usual.

He had met the stranger again the following day. He remembered that he he had checked their website back then, and had found a number of well-oriented conservation programs across the world. Strangely enough, no on-line trace of their doings appeared to have survived the passage of time.

His mind made up, first thing next morning he was calling the number written on the bottom of the exquisite note. Forty-eight hours later he was flying to the utmost south.

The fact that they had managed to obtain carbon permits and tickets to put him on a long-haul flight in such a short lapse was a sign of the tremendous wealth and power wielded by that unknown organization. 

Doctor Feldman had had enough experience with power in his artificially extended life to know that, most of the times, the greatest power and influence were wielded by unnoticed, self-effacing people, the likes of that mysterious Mister Silvertree. 

Two days, a brief rest in a luxury hotel in Buenos Aires and four airplanes after leaving Paris, he was flying over a dense canopy of trees, approaching American continent’s current southern tip -since all lands south of the Straits of Magellan had been drowned in the first assault of Antarctica melting some decades ago ago. 

“Look, Doctor Feldman, down there, can you see it? that’s our strip!” The pilot, a young woman in her mid-thirties had been thrilled to meet him. Although he didn’t like to acknowledge it, he was a living legend, not just because of his four Nobel Prizes but because of his birthdays, the abnormal amount of them, even if those were usually attributed to an exceptionally robust health and bio-tech enhancement. 

Longevity genetic treatments had been discontinued a few decades ago, and had never been mainstreamed to begin with. Instead, most of the population -at least those who could pay for it- had been forced to opt into bio-tech replacements for different conditions brought about by age or accident, which only managed partially similar results. 

He shook his head and then braced for the landing, gripping his backpack tightly to prevent it from hitting the cabin’s ceiling as the small aircraft suddenly dipped into that sea of green. The landing strip appeared out of nowhere, and with a deft hand, the pilot landed smoothly and taxied the aircraft to a stop right beside a wooden stool painted in bright blue that Cyrus guessed would replace the ladder. 

“Welcome to _New Future_ , Doctor Feldman.” The silver-haired man walked up to them with with a welcoming smile. 

Cyrus Feldman breathed in the cool air and looked around in delight. Autumn was well in and the battle of colours was still as boisterous as he remembered -larches and beeches competing in different shades or red and brown against the perennial varieties of silver- limbed southern beeches, which remained stubbornly green throughout the winter.

His host waited patiently by his side, a knowing look on his face. “I hope you find this an appropriate reward after that demanding trip,” he added, extending his long arm and picking up Cyrus’ backpack. 

His voice, Cyrus noted, sounded even richer and stronger here. He nodded, then, fixing his look on that intriguing man. “Yes, indeed,” he answered carefully. “It is amazing here,” he added. “The forest seems more alive than the last time I was in this area, some fifty or sixty years ago…” 

“Maybe it is,” his host answered, a playful smile shinning openly on his face. “But, come, please, you must be exhausted and we still have an hour’s drive up to the compound… is this all your baggage?” 

Cyrus walked beside him towards the wooden structure that apparently served as hangar, warehouse and office. Two men were unloading the airplane’s cargo and another talked with the pilot, leaning casually on a battered jeep, his broad back turned to Cyrus and his golden mane loosely tied back with a threaded strip of bark, Cyrus noted automatically. 

“Qullqui!” the pilot addressed Silvertree in a pleading tone. “Sacha says that I must wait here for at least four days! I cannot do that!” 

“You will have to, Anka, unless you brought your own biofuel,” the blond man said in a low, powerful voice. “I don’t see any other possibility. Unless, of course,” he added, mirth resounding in that deep throat, “that you want to sail north with the fishermen…” 

“I’ll wait here, Sacha, thanks,” she retorted. “Take care, Doctor. Feldman, it’s been a pleasure,” she smiled, waving goodbye and walking gracefull away from them.

The blond man turned then and smiled broadly. ”You are here at last! How was the flight?” he asked with an open grin, moving aside to let Silvertree put Cyrus’s pack on the back of the jeep, beside the solar panels. 

“As usual, I’d say,” Cyrus answered a bit tiredly. Those moments were always the worst, hosts trying to be polite and forcing tired and bewildered visitors to exchange common pleasantries when they only wanted to be left alone for a little while and feel free to yawn and stretch and even swear out loud after such a long flight. 

“Doctor Feldman, meet Greenwood Great’s co-founder, co-president and long time friend, Mister Greenwood, also known around here as Sacha, forest, in an ancient Andean language,” Silvertree smiled. 

Cyrus extended his hand, studying the man in front of him. He looked younger than Silvertree, except for the eyes, which were greenish and bottomless, as his colleague’s. He smiled widely and boastfully; he expressed constant activity in his broad, muscled body. Even in rest, he looked like a force of nature ready to happen upon anyone or anything that disturbed him, a lethal force barely restrained. 

His strong handshake and raucous laughter only served to confirm Cyrus’s opinion, and his sudden fondness of the man. 

“He must have forgotten to mention that they call him Qullqui, the silvery one,” he winked at his friend. “Welcome home, Doctor Feldman,” he rumbled, “we’ve been waiting for you!” 

Looking around in that autumn mid-afternoon, as the solar-powered jeep gasped up a steep mountain path flanked by welcoming trees, Cyrus thought that, strange as it might sound, Greenwood’s words had rung true. He actually felt as if he were coming home. 

**TBC**

**Notes:**

I hope it is clear enough that Silvertree is Celeborn and Greenwood is Thranduil!

 _Global dimming_ : the amount of solar light that reaches the earth surface decreased in between 10 and 30% globally in the period between 1950 and 2000, causing severe climate disruptions. It is posited that this happened due to the accumulation of micro particles in the atmosphere.


	3. Unrest

**Camp " _New Future.” Somewhere in Patagonia, South America._**

It took Doctor Feldman two days to recover from jet-lag, two weeks to make the tour of the settlement and compounds, two months to understand what was going on there and a couple of years to become fully acquainted with the inextricable network of institutions, programmes, projects and activities that stemmed from that mysterious and powerful organization. 

It had all turned out in the most natural way. Nobody awaited him back in Paris, he was retired and he was well-known for his long absences. Every day held a new surprise, and the further he delved into that organized community, the most intriguing it all became.

He had been welcome him, offered a wooden cabin with a comfortable bedroom, a living room, a small kitchen and a bathroom; had been granted unrestricted access to orchards, libraries, labs, offices, computers, resources and data and he had simply adjusted to the routine of camp, joining in those projects that would benefit more from his expertise and spending time teaching the young ones to take care of impoverished soils in a wonderful hands-on lab they called the “soil nursery.” 

“Now, Greenwood, tell me again. Where’s the trick?” 

“The trick?” The blond man was in charge of their data-processing system, Cyrus knew, among other responsibilities. With the help of a group of highly qualified, multidisciplinary assistants in labs scattered around the world, they compiled and processed massive quantities of data as they constantly monitored the state of the earth, checking on carbon concetration levels, methane releases, deforestation, biodiversity loss rates, rainfall rates, temperatures, glacier melting rates, changes in winds and sea current patterns, energy consumption, as well as impacts from extreme climate-related events, which continued to affect larger swathes of the world even more frequently every year. 

The sophistication of their research and communication systems, their access and the quality of the data collected, the high level of correspondants who processed and polished the information around the world was astonishing even for Cyrus, who had enjoyed free access to the most sophisticated official databases worldwide.

Greenwood ruled over that system with an easiness Cyrus Feldman recognized as born out of experience, letting his assistants work their way through boring data, even when he had already spotted the missing link in a chain of events or highlighted the relevant pattern in tedious series. Cyrus secretly admired his shrewd eye for detail and his masterful approach to earth sciences.

“What trick?” the blond man insisted with a knowing chuckle, pretending ignorance, falling easily into an only too familiar pattern. 

They had just had dinner in the communal dining room, a large wooden structure with great windows opening to the trees, and were now enjoying the ritual _mate_ , the traditional tea which was prepared in a cured gourd and sipped patiently with a metal straw.

“I’m missing something,” Cyrus smiled. They had had this same conversation several times in those two years, but Greenwood never tired of explaining their projects, and Cyrus simply expected to understand better. 

“So, you say that this has no cost to you.” Cyrus continued, treading a well-known path. 

“It has not. What is it that worries you so? You serve your vocation, as we all do,” he laughed, nodding towards the large kitchen’s open door where Silvertree was busy cleaning up after his cooking shift. 

“And the research and communications infrastructure and network?” 

“Donated.” 

“Satellites?”

“Rented.”

“Your assistants, scientists, workers here?” 

“What happens to them?” 

“They work for free?” 

“Are we paying you, Cyrus?” Greenwood’s deep voice had a tinge of amusement that never failed to provoke a smile in Cyrus. 

At this point, he would usually stop for a while, and then try another approach. 

“So, is this a kind of cult, then?” 

“A cult? That’s a new one, Cyrus, I like that!” Greenwood had a contagious booming laughter. ”Let me try again,” he said, sitting back and casting an amused glance at Cyrus. 

“This is a scientific station, operating as HQ for many others around the world. The research infrastructure, the equipment and the satellite access to the data-collecting systems and stations around the world, as well as their upkeep and technical support, are supplied and financed by Greenwood Great, which, as you have learnt, is a longstanding, well-respected Foundation with a mighty, multigenerational endowment. It sustains many branches, none of which are environmentally, legally or financially even remotely dubious…” 

“Such as Green Watchers,” Cyrus interrupted. 

“For instance.” 

“Or Green Education.” 

“Sure.” 

“Or Green Energy?” 

“That one, too.” 

“Green Gadgets? Green Tech? Green Food? Green Rewilding?” 

“That last one is my favourite. And we could go on through over than three hundred directly managed programmes and spin-off companies. _“New Future,”_ too, happens to be the place where Silvertree and I, two of the presidents of Greenwood Great, chose to settle down an undetermined number of years ago. The most interesting fact about this place, as you have seen, is that our ecological footprint is zero or less. We not only cause no disturbance to the global or local environmental balance, but our activities enhance its well-being as well, mainly by capturing carbon and eliminating emissions from the get go.”

“Is that truly possible?” Cyrus interrupted, knowing where to poke. Greenwood shook his head patiently.

“We have gone through this many times, Cyrus, and you have seen it for yourself. Energy is naturally supplied and transformed without waste or emissions, we use what we need, adapt to what we can safely produce and consume, recycle and reuse. We restore and regenerate the unbalanced ecology of the area with no waste whatsoever, pacing our needs to what the forest and the land can provide, abiding by the rule of the seventh generation in all our decisions.” 

He stopped then to sip from the steel straw, the _bombilla_. The _mate_ herb infusion paced most of their conversations, and that was a ritual Cyrus had been glad to rediscover after many years.

“The scientists who choose to live in one of these communities are supplied with all their needs, and so are their families’,” Greenwood went on, passing the jug with the hot water on to Cyrus so he could refill his own gourd. ”And they are required to cooperate in maintaining their community by undertaking day-to-day activities, teaching the children, so on. There’s no need for money here, Cyrus, as you have seen for yourself. And Greenwood Great is self-sufficient, financially, as well as independently audited. You need something, you go to the warehouse and request it -there’s a network of clean transportation and clearhouse system to ensure that everything fits our standards. This makes trade and barter and exchanges possible between our extensive network of associated communities. You want to depart, you are offered transportation to the place of your choice and a position in one of the organization’s projects around the world, in the same conditions as in here. If you want to return to “normal” life, the fact that you have been working here opens the most prestigious universities and companies to you. Working for money is a very inefficient and energy-wasting activity, after all,” he ended with his infectious grin. 

“And what about the non-scientific community? And the children? What future do they have? What choices?” Cyrus was desperately trying to find fault in what looked to him as an all too-perfect project. His long years had taught him that such things did not exist, and that most of the shiny, wonderful, so-called sustainable eco-projects ended up being a fake front, the green and social washing machine of some unspeakable industry. Everything here sounded too easy and well-thought and perfect for his comfort. 

“Have we never told you how _“New Future”_ came to being, Cyrus?” another deep voice joined in the conversation.They both looked up as Silvertree straddled the wooden bench and placed his own gourd on the table, casting a look at the jug of hot water that Cyrus was hoarding. “Pass the water, it will get cold,” he urged pleasantly. 

“Excellent dinner, master cook, I might ask for the recipe of that corn pie,” Greenwood joked good-naturedly while Silvertree retrieved the jug, poured hot water and pressed the leaves distractedly with his _bombilla._

“So,” Silvetree continued, “you may remember that by the beginning of this century there was a strong movement towards a return to a more nature-oriented, small-scale, more environmentally friendly ways of living. Communities of that kind spread around the world. Porvenir, “ _Future_ ,” in Isla Grande Tierra de Fuego, was one of the first ones, made up of half-indigenous people, artisans, farmers, ranchers, professors and professionals whi came there from allover the world. When the first wave of Antarctica’s melting hit there we managed to save most of them, and offered them to resettle around here.” 

“You were here, then?” Cyrus asked softly. That was one of the issues he had not yet raised, out of discretion. Antarctica’s first large-scale melting had happened some sixty years ago. Life-extending treatments had been scarce and managed with the utmost secrecy, but he had no doubt those two, with their apparently unlimited clout, might have somehow managed access.

“Yes, we were. We knew exactly what was going to happen, and about when. We had developed a specific early warning system for the area, that’s how we managed to evacuate the coastal lands before the flood. They -and their descendants- settled in the surroundings. Their children are taught here, there are many experts in different fields, and our training programs are among the most advanced and recognized around the world…If they grow to want to become, say, a theoretical physicist, or a neurosurgeon… well, obviously we don’t have the facilities here for that, but they are offered support to move out and follow their own path…We only require that they work for any Greenwood Great project or community for a few years, after they graduate.” 

“But, above all, they learn to be ecologically sound and cooperative with the environment,” Greenwood came back to his favourite subject. “They learn to make decisions based upon zero ecological footprint at the worst, and with positive, regenerative impact whenever possible. Many choose to remain here, some have gone abroad, others have created settlements around here or elsewhere in the world…but they still maintain this way of living, out of choice. They are strictly independent from us. They rule themselves, and we all exchange resources and knowledge. They just...came on board, adopted our system, which was far more advanced and practical than the one they had before and… went on with their lives.” 

“There’s a large network of communities like this one around the world,” Silvertree continued. “Up in the tens of thousands, now, I think. They freely associate with Greenwood Great, we provide them with technical assistance and equipment, onboard them on our best practices databases and experts, our communication systems and trade clearhouse and they just... go on as part of the network and continue exchanging information and best practices, as well as goods and services when needed, all in a regenerative fashion.” 

That was new, and Cyrus wondered how he had never heard of it. He remembered that trend, of course, he had seen those self-sustained communities spread around the world, a reaction against globalization, but, above all, against the environmental threat and dehumanizing size of growing megalopolis. 

He had actually lived in one of those for a while, early on, with his wife and son.

As environmental distress spread, large swathes of land had been abandoned by nation- states, considered too expensive to sustain human settlements there, and so the resettlement movement had stepped in. He had found only a handful that were viable, and this one was, by far, the most sophisticated he had ever seen. Peace, happiness, creativity and positive energy coursed the camp; everything seemed possible, and there were no boundaries to what one could or would dowith her time, unless you were on kitchen duty. 

“You are a miracle, aren’t you?” he grunted, after sipping thoughtfully. How this powerful and sophisticated network had managed to fly under the radar was a mystery to him.

Despite those passing moments of puzzlement and doubt, Cyrus truly enjoyed life in _“New Future.”_ He was surrounded by talented, enthusiastic people who had the means and the knowledge to pursue the strangest hypothesis and find something practical and useful in their research, without the pressing need for yielding immediate financial results or bowing to “donor bias.”

He enjoyed working with the children and growing their database of best practices in the soil nursery. He had the energizing feeling that he was doing something useful, instead of fighting hopelessly to stem a tide with his bare hands. He felt truly privileged to be working in such an enriching setting, in which knowledge, ideas, theories and data flew freely and grew more fertile because of the freedom with which they were exchanged. 

They had their moments of leisure, too. Musicians, storytellers, artisans and artists usually enlivened the evenings with acting, storytelling, recounting of old myths or new plays, or playing ancient, traditional instruments.

He particularly loved the enthralling sound of the sanka panpipes and the bombo drums resounding in the night, at the times when most of the camp reunited around bonfires and simply listened to that ancient, haunting music that pulsed with the mighty heartbeat of the powerful Andes. His hosts, too, seemed to favour these instruments, and they could be seen listening intently, their eyes strangely unfocused and a subtle shimmer sorrounding them, as if lost in what distant land of thought Cyrus could not guess. 

Sure as he was that they were the inspiring force behind the astonishing achievements and extraordinary well-being of that population, he was strangely afraid of delving further into their mystery for fear that, as in fairy tales, the mirage would dissolve in front of his eyes the moment he tried to fully unveil its secrets. 

So he continued working eagerly, supporting and improving the efforts of the soil department, which seemed to be the most important target of the organization’s current efforts.

He focused in the field of soil regeneration and soil reconstruction, documenting special crops for poor soils, putting to work the ancient traditional practices he had rescued during his long years working to stop the devastating droughts and famines in Africa first, and across the world later. 

“Isn’t it ironic?” he complained one night, about a year and a half after that conversation at the dinner table. They were sitting at his hosts’ refuge upon a mighty Nothofagus, a comfortable, rustic chamber they called the _Talan_ , a place that reminded Cyrus of his own Paris apartment, full of curiosities and mementos from around the world 

They were drinking their customary _mate_ , but this time the conversation was scarce, each lost in their own thoughts. 

“We’ve been despoiling traditional cultures from their knowledge for years, or I’d rather say, centuries,” Cyrus ranted at one point, ”exchanging their ancient wisdom and languages for our chemicals and modified seeds until their soils were ruined and their knowledge lost and they were unable to obtain their own sustenance from their lands. Then, we fed them out of charity and got them deep in debt as we taught them back what we once learnt from them, deprived of context and tradition, most of the times useless in their new conditions. Isn’t it ironic?” he repeated bitterly, sipping angrily. 

“What do you propose?” Silvertree asked calmly. Cyrus noted that Greenwood tensed in his comfortable hammock, listening with barely concealed interest. 

“I…I don’t know, I mean, I hadn’t thought…” 

“Let me help you. Many years ago, we started buying land rights across the world and returning them to indigeous peoples who had lost them to cellulose plantations, oil-fields, mining, roads, cities, real estate, intensive farming, aluminum production, oil, shale gas…You know how it went. Then we began to buy seed patents from different labs, and returning them, improved, to their rightful traditional owners as well. Of course, the water rights, too, needed to be returned to their rightfult stewards, then we set up a seed bank…” 

“Svalbard 3?”

“Of course not! Greenwood Great Seed Bank, if you don’t mind!” Silvertree chuckled. “The point is..”

“We also delved into research, improving the value of those seeds and crops, finding new uses, like new materials, new medical uses… and then donated the intellectual property rights to their traditional owners as well,” Greenwood interrupted his friend, now fully immersed in the conversation. 

No matter how well Cyrus thought that he knew his hosts, they always managed to surprise him. Some months had passed since his last bout of doubt, and he now fully trusted them.

He had also learnt to identify their differences and their reactions. Silvertree was calm and even-tempered, while Greenwood was prone to action and quick –if extraordinarily well-informed- decisions. Both shared an immense knowledge and inexhaustible patience, and a positive attitude that still surprised Cyrus after all that time. They were always ready to embark on new projects and new battles, and everything seemed possible when they looked at it with their knowing eyes. 

“But yes, of course, I can see what you mean...” Silvertree was musing on something, Cyrus could tell from the glitter in his silvery eyes. “ _That_ would be ironic. We must ask our partners for some quick research on the status of soils…” 

“Oh, please!” Greenwood’s voice had that amused edge that was always prelude to febrile activity. “I die to read Bard’s rendition of traditional direct-seeding procedures and Poet's versions of ages-old harvest songs!” he joked, laughing at Silvertree’s pained expression. 

Bard and Poet, as they were indistinctly known, were Greenwood’s Great other two co-founders and co-presidents, as far as Cyrus had gathered. They took care of other side of the organization’s activities, mainly running their potent databases and internal social media and communications tools, feeding indescribable pieces of undefined, varied knowledge upon the many communities that accessed and nurtured Greenwood Great’s vast information, communication and knowledge network. They called it _Laplant,_ the network of land, people, animals and plants. Having an e-identity at a vast internet-like network called _Laplant_ never failed to make Cyrus smile in wonder.

And so it was that soon Cyrus found himself involved in the creation of a huge freeware database of ancient traditional agricultural best-practices and remedies paired with what caused the problems and diseases and ways to avoid those, cross-referenced with the contents of Greenwood Great’s Seed Bank and Free Seeds programs. 

Bard and Poet received the proposal with great delight, reinforcing Cyrus’ idea that they might be kind of subversive revolutionary types by the way the cheered at the idea of returning ancient knowledge to their original keepers. Greenwood’s outburst of laughter was no doubt heard across the continent when Cyrus shared his suspicions with him. 

They worked restlessly for almost ten years, in not always easy collaboration with those distant colleagues who would only from time to time video call with Cyrus, favouring written, recorded or voice-only communications -not that Cyrus minded, for the two had otherworldy enchanting voices and a gift with music and words that was simply mesmerizing. 

As their work progressed and their section in _Laplant_ began to grow and take shape, Cyrus was more and more amazed at the powerful research and knowledge developement tool they had set in motion, and how easy Bard and Poet made it all look. 

“They started compiling databases of almost every thing ever researched related to human and earth sciences, and also take care of the Seed Bank, although they keep a side business centered in the Arts and traditional knowledge,” Silvertree told him once of his two distant friends. “They settled in Central Asia, in the Karakorum-Altai area, some decades ago, don’t ask me why. They had huge sets of caverns arranged and conditioned and then brought a number of scholars from different areas to work with them, digitalizing and cross-referencing information for the simple pleasure of it…. Of course they do other things, while they’re at it….” 

Useful cross-referencing was a fact, as Cyrus had the chance of experiencing for himself in many occasions during the project. Poet and Bard, despite their crankiness and peculiarities, such as sending information in free verse paired with musical notation, or coming up with definitions in palindromes, or adding quotes of obscure works of ancient literature in original ancestral languages, they indeed proved themselves of the greatest help and bottomless wells of ancient knowledge, obscure sources and inaccessible bibliography and references that made _Laplant_ a resource of unmeasurable worth.

Soon their lively communities were busy and thriving with information about traditional soil and farming practices exchanged through _Laplant_. Most of the practices were tested in _New Future_ ’s soil nursery, and extended to other communities that made part of their many thousand-member network for feedback. Soon all of Greenwood Great’s associate communities were engaged in that enthralling project, testing and reproducing ancient practices, different seeds, and adding their own observations and data. 

Visual, as well as written and spoken, records started to accumulate and to flow freely around the world, and soon Cyrus felt a strong connection to those people he would probably never meet in person, and yet were an important part of what they were building together. As temperatures rose and extreme climate events multiplied around the world, their best practices in soil and crop compositions and practices spread across _Laplant,_ helping save many from starvation and despair.

“I can’ t believe this!” Cyrus was amazed at what they had set in motion from that simple conversation. “It’s… it’s amazing, I mean…how, how did we manage this? I never thought it was so simple…we have progressed so much in so little time! When this is finished we may have such a powerful tool to stop so many problems that I cannot believe this wasn’t done before!” 

He was sitting on the windowsill in Greenwood’s office, chattering away while his friend waited for the final draft of his midyear report on The State of the Earth, which depicted with grim accuracy the progressive deterioration of the biosphere across the world. The blond man raised a brow and looked at him quizzically, but Cyrus was so enthralled by the prospects of their success that did not take notice.

“Can you imagine?” he crowed. “When this tool is finished and at everybody’s reach, there won’t be reason for such damaging practices anymore! The amount of carbon that they will be capturing in addition to the carbon they will stop releasing will not be just a minor side benefit, either!” 

“Cyrus, I can’t believe that you are speaking seriously,” Greenwood laughed out, his big frame shaking with unrestrained mirth. ”You truly believe that this will stop deforestation and the use of chemicals in industrial growing, not to speak intensive agriculture and farming, mining, or general pollution in any manner? Come on, man, you’ve lived over a hundred and fifty years, you cannot possibly believe that!” 

“Of course I do! Why are we doing this, then? Once the information is available worldwide...” Cyrus retorted heatedly. 

“The information has always been available for those who would look for it. We’re compiling it for several purposes, but "saving the world", as you put it, is none of them.” Greenwood answered sternly. 

Cyrus eyed him intensely, as if he had found a long-sought answer. “I’ll never give up trying, though!” he stated calmly, and left the office without looking back. 

*** 

“Why are we doing this, Silvertree?”

They were sitting by the fire, in one of those excessively warm nights that were now the rule all over the year. In all the years that he had spent there, Cyrus had noticed a steady rising of the temperatures. Rainfalls were now scarcer and wildly out of season. Many beeches had died, and the forest was clearing out at a steady pace, depsite their best efforts and much to Greenwood’s dismay.

The stars, though, shone as bright as ever. 

“For three reasons, Cyrus, as far as I can tell,” Silvertree seemed to know exactly what he was wondering about, Cyrus noted. “First, for the sake of preserving the knowledge and returning it to their rightful keepers, as I recall you suggested that night. Second, to try and test those methods and verify their validity, which is something that agrees with our objectives at large. Third, to help our associate communities improve the quality and quantity of their production while maintaining their soils and avoiding carbon emissions, deforestation and loss of soil cover, so they can continue to sustain them. I could add that it makes you happy, and that’s a good thing, and that it keeps Bard and Poet from other activities, which is even better, as you must have learnt by now...But we never set out with the idea of saving the world by force, you already know that…” 

Cyrus smiled sadly, his fears confirmed. He turned his head to the bonfire, where a group of young artists were enacting an ancient myth. 

He discovered with some trepidation that they were playing the selk’nam myth he had used in his last speech at the WCE, the day he had met Silvertree and his life had taken an unexpected course.

He looked briefly at his companion but he seemed deeply engaged in following the acting. _This is a chance occurrence, it was casually scheduled for today,_ he thought firmly, _it has nothing to do with our conversation_ , he reassured himself, watching as the God Sun, mightily enraged, chased his wife the Moon off the land to the skies, and the rest of the female spirits to the Sea. Then, death came to earth, under powerful wings, and God Sun, immortal as he was, could not live in the same place with mighty death, so he had to climb to the skies, too, to oversee the rest of his subjects, male spirits, whom he turned into forest dwellers.

 _“…Except that what we call “casuality” is actually our ignorance of the subtle mechanisms that govern causality.”_ The quote emerged from who knew what deep recesses of his mind, sending a shiver through his spine. The drama progressed in front of the fire, as darkness and death eventually climbed to the skies and the God Sun was finally chased from his throne and out of the skies, and the women emerged from the sea with a powerful roll of drums to retake the land as darkness spread.

The women in the audience cheered happily as they did every time that particular play was enacted. The young actors bowed repeatedly and blushed furiously as the girls jumped up and engaged them in a traditional dance, music bursting from everywhere, as it was common in those celebrations. At the changing light of the flames, Cyrus discovered the silhouette of Greenwood, leaning on a tree not far away, watching the fire, his arms crossed over his powerful chest, his eyes strangely alight and the saddest look he had ever seen upon any face on earth. 

“We are not giving up, Cyrus,” Silvertree’s deep voice said softly. “We will never yield. There are battles, though, that cannot be won.” 

He nodded silently, swallowing around the lump in his throat. Turning his back on his friends, he walked unsteadily to his cabin. 

He shifted restlessly in his bed that night, tossing and turning as forgotten faces, shreds of conversations and distorted images crowded in his mind. Tired of his unrest, he got up and went out, hoping to find some peace under the stars. He walked half a dozen steps towards the forest and then froze. 

Greenwood and Silvertree stood at the edge of the forest, tall as trees of gold and silver, still as stones, looking west. The full moon washed them in its magical light, made them shine like ancient statues, like otherworldly spirits keeping guard. Cyrus was reminded of the tall stone Mo’ai of Ahu Akivi, in Easter Island. As legend had it, that particular Ahu honoured the seven explorers who had first set foot in the island, and they looked west to the place were their ancestral homeland had once been, as a reminder of the lost way home. 

The longing and yearning radiating from those still figures was so poignant that Cyrus could hardly find the strength to move away. When he finally made his way back to his bed, he fell into a deep, untroubled sleep. 

**TBC**

**Notes:**

_Mate:_ A traditional indigenous tea, made out of the leaves of a tropical south American endemic plant, _ilex paraguariensis;_ It is traditionally served in a dried and decorated gourd, filled with up to two thirds with the dried leaves. Hot water is then poured over the leaves , and you sip the infusion from a metal straw, called “bombilla” and refill time and again until the leaves shed all their flavour. 

_Svalbard Global Seed Vault_ is a seed bank in a Norwegian island, close to the arctic Circle.

 _“…Except that what we call “casuality” is actually our ignorance of the subtle mechanisms that govern causality.”_ is a quote from J.L.Borges, an Argentinian writer.

 _Mo’ai_ are those tall stone faces in Easter Island. An Ahu is the ceremonial site where the Mo’ai are set. Ahu Akivi, with seven statues, is the only Ahu placed inland and looking to the sea. The legend sustains the explanation Cyrus is remembering here, but it’s not a documented fact at all.


	4. The Peace Of Wild Things

“Want to see something interesting, Cyrus?” 

Three weeks had passed since their discussion, Silvertree had left for Paris -and other undisclosed destinations- and Cyrus had turned all his efforts into polishing the last details of their soil management tool, withdrawing into his lab and computer and avoiding more in-depth conversations.

He had also used the time to try and come to terms with his childish disappointment.

He still admired Silvertree and Greenwood without reserve for their vast knowledge, their calm and positive demeanour and the fairness and generosity with which they put to use the immense power -and, no doubt, wealth- they had come to amass along the years, although how or during how many years he still refused to even consider. 

They were great scientists, probably the best in the world, who had spurned honours and public recognition and had exchanged them for a simple, yet satisfactory life of intellectual pursuits and practical achivements. He could not blame them for that. Most of his long-time friends had done the same. And these two had achieved more than many whole world-reaching organizations. He could not force others to fight, he had reminded himself firmly, and so he had overcome his despondency as he had done so many times before. 

“Cyrus?” 

He looked up, coming out from his musings. Greenwood was leaning in the doorframe, watching him with mild amusement. 

“Beg pardon, daydreaming, it’d seem. You said?” 

“I asked if you wanted to see something interesting, and, in case you did, let me know if you are up for a long ride….” 

“Yes, and yes,” was Cyrus prompt answer.

Every time any of them had come with a similar offer, Cyrus had been treated to some unforgettable experience; the mating dance of what had turned out to be the last whales of the southern hemisphere, the hatching of a brood of diminutive humming birds, the final melting of a nearby glacier or the dying song of a beloved part of the forest, their eye for natural beauty and their ability to perceive its most subtle changes never ceased to amaze him. 

“Right, then. We’ll leave tomorrow before dawn, we’ll drive to _“Camp Rosario”_ and ride up from there. Good night!” and with a friendly wink he turned and disappeared, leaving Cyrus with the feeling that some of the light of the world had gone with him. 

˜*˜*˜*˜*˜

 _“Camp Rosario”_ was about fifteen miles west and upwards, following a battered trail. Most of the families who lived there were agricultors and free range stock farmers, descendants of those nomadic _gauchos_ who had herded sheep and cows across the endless plains of Patagonia for generations uncounted. Since the melting of the Patagonia Ice Fields, North and South, most of those lands were now submerged. Those strong and resilient people had taken to the mountains and held on to their traditional way of living -ranching horses, sheep, llamas and cows for their own -and the neighbouring camps’- consumption.

One of those stern and silent men awaited them at the entrance of the camp with two spirited horses. 

“Morning, Antonio,” Greenwood greeted them with the closeness and familiarity he extended to everyone around him. He carried himself with an easiness that Cyrus found compelling, rather than overbearing, as if he knew he commanded attention and were always ready to see to the needs of those around him. The man nodded silently to Cyrus and then whispered something to Greenwood, who laughed out heartily. 

“He worries that the horse will be too much for you, Cyrus, what do you say?” there was a hint of a challenge in his greenish, laughing eyes. 

Cyrus studied the horse with a critical eye. He knew its type. They were like old-time bureaucrats, apparently tame but vicious, nasty and petty creatures if you let them have their way. Once they acknowledged who the master was, and provided it was not themselves, they were faithful, useful and wise creatures, who knew the intricacies of their trade and willingly cooperated with the noblest of targets in mind; to live another day with as little trouble as they could manage. Hand, voice and knee were usually needed, mostly at the same time, to get to that point, though. 

He shrugged at his expectant companions and with a sure hand he mounted the reluctant steed, ducking the sudden movement of the big head and holding on steadily until the horse stopped rearing and skirting, the reins firmly held short in his left hand. 

“Shall we go?” he asked blandly. 

“After you, Doctor Feldman!” Greenwood laughed, mounting his unsaddled stallion in one effortless movement and following him. 

They rode on, as the morning unfolded in the east. The wind whistled softly among the trees to their right as the narrow path winded its way laboriously up, a deep fall at their left. It would be different when they reached the top, Cyrus knew, for then the north-western ocean wind would blow with full force in their faces, with no trees to shelter them. 

Cyrus noticed then that Greenwood looked very relaxed on his steed, his fingers barely gripping the stallion’s mane. His own mount was behaving properly, but he still kept a tight hold and gave no concessions to friendship, not with that long fall to his side. The sun was climbing slowly behind them, filtering through the moisture-laden clouds and gilding the silvery sky. With some luck, Cyrus thought, it might even rain. 

“In the mood for a race?” Greenwood brought him out of his musings as soon as they reached the end of their ascent. 

“Why not?” he agreed, smiling at the eager, intense look on his friend’s face. 

With no warning, Greenwood gave a short cry and his stallion jumped forth at full speed, racing across the open plateau with free rein. Cyrus followed suit, more carefully, enjoying the sight of his friend who seemed one with his mount, riding with wild abandon against the ocean’s salt wind, his blond mane flying loosely behind him, looking as if he truly belonged there, Cyrus thought not for the first time. 

“Not bad for an old man!” Greenwood smiled playfully, his face alight with delight when Cyrus finally caught up with him. 

“Not bad for another,” Cyrus retorted amusedly, caressing his horse’s mane. “What are we doing here, Greenwood?“ he added, his curiosity piqued by the strange animation in his friend’s face. The light played tricks with his golden mane as his eyes searched the steely skies restlessly. 

“There!” he whispered at las with relief. “Look!” 

“Where? I can see nothing… What?” A hand hit his chest, and Cyrus looked down to see it held a pair of binoculars. Greenwood’s eyes were fixed on a spot in the sky and he tried to follow his pointing finger with the lens. 

“Welcome home, my friend… welcome home…” his blond friend whispered softly. 

They stood there for hours, watching as a pair of wandering albatrosses unfolded their welcome dance in the morning skies, white as new fallen snowflakes, bright as morning stars, soaring elegantly in the southern winds with their powerful wings wide open, caressing each other in a well known routine they repeated every breeding season, regardless of how tired they were after their restless cruising of the wide skies of the world. 

“They mate for life,” Greenwood said softly, his voice hoarse. “They sail the skies endlessly, alone, but they unfailingly return to the place were they first met every two years and wait for each other…” There was a strange emotion in his voice as he stood there, his hair whipping in the wind, following the enthralling dance. “They wait, they always wait…” he whispered with such longing that it almost broke Cyrus heart.

They remained there, their horses patiently grazing what grass was at their reach, not even daring to move as their riders watched the birds lovingly hold each other against the wild winds. 

“They’ll rebuild their old nest and lay a single egg, which will take about a month and a half to hatch”, Greenwood said in a neutral tone of voice once the seabirds disappeared behind an exposed ridge. Cyrus thought he could glimpse the glitter of unshed tears in those profound and knowing eyes. “We’ve been tracking them for the last seventy-five years,” he added with a small smile, “and this was the first time the male came late to their appointment. She had been waiting for a week!” Cyrus remembered then the glistening whiteness of both birds, only a faint shade of pitch black in the tip of the outer tail feathers, and knew that those birds were really old. 

_“Like all of us”_ he thought with a sudden surge of tiredness. He understood only too well the longing in his friend’s expression. At a certain point one grew tired of so many goodbyes and so much loss. 

“Are you all right?” Cyrus heard Greenwood’s worried question through a haze. He shook his head. 

“Yes, a passing bout of dizziness, but it’s over”, he tried to sound reassuring. “A beautiful sight, I’m glad you shared it...” 

“It was worth the ride, I hope…Ready to go?” 

“If you are,” Cyrus answered a bit challenging, for his friend still wore a pained expression that worried Cyrus in turn. 

“I will be, thanks,” he answered slowly, hitting Cyrus with the most sorrowful smile he had ever seen. He urged his horse on, Cyrus at his side. “There are only fourteen pairs of wandering albatrosses left in the world, now. These two are the oldest, and every passing year they grow more tired and wane. It’s been twenty years, now, since their last chick survived long enough to reach adulthood but they won’t give up…” 

“What a terrible doom,” Cyrus observed sadly, “to sail the skies endlessly and touch the land shortly, only to see their efforts come to nothing…” 

“What a terrible doom, to fulfil their nature?” Greenwood’s voice held a strong mix of surprise and exasperation as he stopped his mount and faced Cyrus, searching his face with incredulity. “Oh!" he laughed then harshly. “I forgot, of course, the human privilege, to stand above your doom and change your fate with your own deeds... and daring to pity those creatures who are not granted that same _‘gift’…_ What a terrible doom indeed, Cyrus, for these wonderful creatures to be doomed to share their lifetime and habitat with humans, who managed to disrupt the patterns of winds and seas, to bring scarcity to oceans that once thrived with food and life, who managed to push the earth to the brink of collapse!” 

He shook his head angrily and with a soft word Cyrus could not understand, he urged his horse forward, leaving him behind. 

Cyrus followed slowly, giving his friend time to recover his firm grip upon his temper. In truth, he knew that Greenwood was right, but everything in him rebelled at the thought of giving up. Surely, there must be something that could be done to save those magnificent old seabirds from extinction? With so many species already gone, every battle lost became more unbearable to him.

He caught up with his friend half the way back. He had stopped to talk to two _gauchos_ from _“Camp Rosario”_ and was inspecting something packed in one of their saddle blankets. 

“They are out to retrieve some lost sheep,” Greenwood said as he reached them. “It seems they’ve had some attacks from a great predator. It’s been a long time since we last had one around,” he added evenly, but Cyrus could see a strange glitter in his eyes. The men behind them said something in their ancient language, and the only word Cyrus could understand was ‘puma,’ the mountain lion. They said something to Greenwood and laughed out loud as he bowed to them. 

“A puma?” Cyrus asked in amazement. 

“I seriously doubt it,” Greenwood said evenly, without meeting Cyrus’ eyes, nodding to the men and urging his mount into a canter. 

˜*˜*˜*˜*˜

“I had a copy of the mid-year report printed out for you, Cyrus, I would really like to have your opinion,” Greenwood said a few nights later as they enjoyed their _mate_ in the almost empty communal dining room. 

Cyrus raised his brows in amazement. “Anything in particular that you want me to look at?” he asked, his curiosity piqued. Paper was a luxury, something truly treasured. “I’m afraid I haven’t been paying much attention to my in-tray lately,” he added on second thoughts. 

“I know,” Greenwood laughed in his customary loud and friendly manner. “Your assistants tell me that you’re dedicated to the soils, which is good and well. How’s everything going on? Bard tells me that he’s very proud of the outcome...” 

“Is he, now?” Cyrus felt absurdly gratified by that compliment. For some unexplained reason, those four men’s opinion mattered to him more than his Nobel Prizes. _I’m getting old,_ he said to himself, and then out loud, “wish I knew which of them is Bard...” 

“Useless,” Greenwood laughed. “They switch nickname constantly, so all that you need to know is that while they are both bitter menaces, one’s bitterness is Doom-based and the other’s is rooted in unrequited love.”

“I see... I’ll read that report and give you my opinion. You could have told me, if there was something urgent, the soil tutorials and documents are finished, after all…” 

“Nothing that we did not know or expect, Cyrus, but it’s been some years since you last gave it a dedicated revision,” Greenwood said softly, patting his friend’s shoulder and wishing him goodnight. 

For two days and two nights Cyrus studied the mid-year’s State of the Earth report, having his meals brought to his lab and double checking incessantly on his computer for confirmation. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Late on the second day, Cyrus dropped the report in front of Greenwood and took a seat at the other side of his friend’s desk. 

“Tell you what?” Greenwood looked at him with concern. Cyrus knew that he looked wrung out, his face grey with fatigue and his shoulders slumped in defeat. 

“What?” Cyrus pointed at the report. “We’ve crossed all tipping points, we are well beyond the point of no return! I’ve been hiding here for so many years, and I gave up checking because I trusted that you were doing something! That _we_ were doing something! 

“We are, Cyrus,” Greenwood answered calmly. “We’ve been making the difference for many people for a long time, now! You already knew that we were well past the point of no return… we had crossed that threshold long before you came here...” 

“But that’s not enough! You cannot hide here and simply gloat in smug satisfaction. The world is heading to a catastrophic ending and you sit here and do… nothing?” 

“Cyrus, you’re overtired, and are not seeing things with equanimity...” 

“Equanimity? You positively know that the biosphere will collapse soon and ask for equanimity? I cannot believe that you two have been hiding in here all these years, keeping this from the public knowledge and letting things come to this state, and I cannot believe that I could have so misjudged the two of you!” he hit the desk vehemently, disregarding the telltale signs of a storm brewing on his friend’s face. 

“Cyrus…” 

“You keep all this knowledge, all this smart organization and endless resources to yourselves and those you deem worth of it, leaving millions of people to die and worse! Millions displaced, packed and piled in those crowded camps of death, or in city slums or underground refuges, breathing polluted air and living off poisoned soils and water sources… Exulting, when they get to eat some naturally grown fresh vegetables that have now less than half their original nutritional value…” 

“What would you have us do, then?” Greenwood could barely control his anger, but Cyrus took no notice. 

“Do? What have you been doing? You tell me, Greenwood Great’s president, what have you been doing with your powerful organization that you let the earth come to this state!” He knew he was being unfair, but he couldn’t stop to care at that point. 

Greenwood threw his arms open, looking at him in sheer disbelief. “Would you have me stand up in arms and force all those millions to follow a lifestyle they do not believe in, they never asked for?” he challenged. “Would you that we took control of the world and imposed our system by force? Do you really think that would have worked?”

He waved around wildly, incensed. “We’ve been supporting those who wanted another life, Cyrus! You always talk of so many communities that were not viable, back in your day, but you never heard of those who needed little or no help! There are now hundreds of thousands of communities like this one around the world, where people struggle to live free of worries and needs, support each other, enjoy free education and energy supply, and grow up knowing that the biosphere must be supported and respected!”

He stood up as he spoke, pacing and gesturing vehemently, while Cyrus stood his ground. “And still in those communities, which you, too, have been supporting, people are constantly harassed and killed by those who feel threatened by their lifestyle, those who would take away their rights and their lands!”

They stood there, looking at each other, aware that at the other end of the lab conversations had come to a stop, as Greenwood’s assistants tried to get wind of what had their boss so uncharacteristically riled up. With a shake of his head Greenwood went to the door and closed it, taking deep breaths to regain control. He walked back to his desk and plopped down on his chair as if deflated.

“Even worse,” he continued in a rough, lowered voice, his gaze lost in the dismal patch of forest that could still be seen from his window. “Even our partner communities are doomed to death by extinction, too, for they were never enough, Cyrus, never enough of them to stop this from happening, because the earth cannot be saved by a few individuals doing the right thing!”

He pointed at the thick volume and scoffed. “This has always been public information, it is not me hiding it from public knowledge, but people refusing to believe it!” He now shone like a storm cloud gilded by a setting sun, an inner glow that came from within and gleamed brighter in his clouded, pained eyes. 

“You could have done more…” Cyrus whispered, tears of impotence in his voice. “You could have changed everything…” 

“I suppose I might,” Greenwood’s voice held now an icy tinge that caught Cyrus’ attention. “But, do you know how the earth came to be, Cyrus? In the beginning it was a ball of fire, and then came the water, and terrible earthquakes, and only long after that, life, of many different sorts well before humans came to it. But nothing lasts forever, and even this earth’s days are numbered. It might be a meteorite, it might be the sun becoming a nova and exploding through the solar system, or it could be an implosion due to environmental collapse…” he leaned forth and bored into Cyrus’ with his green eyes that now shone coldly. 

“The thing is,” he kept on, “that this it is bound to happen, and neither you nor I can do much about it. Where do you think all those myths and legends come from, Cyrus? It has happened before,” he said softly, “in the time before Time, in the time of the Songs, and myths, when the gods walked the lands… the sun falling down, light disappearing and darkness ruling, the waves roaring in and swallowing the lands…All those myths are the echo of ancient memories, or maybe a memory of something that will happen, an echo from a future that once melt with the past…” 

“So you sit there and tell me that the earth has come to its end because some ancient myth said so, and you would do nothing to stop it...” Cyrus looked at the man across the desk as if he saw him for the first time. “That’s inhuman! “ he claimed. 

Greenwood’s reaction caught Cyrus Feldman by surprise. He let his head fall backwards and let escape a bitter, mirthless roar of laughter.

“Inhuman?” he cried, still laughing. “Of course, my good friend, glad you finally noticed! Of course that this is inhuman, as are all the creatures bound to this earth, doomed to silently cope while humans visit despoilment and devastation even upon their own kind! Inhuman, as are all creatures doomed to dwindle while humans encroach them and carelessly misuse the land, and the water, and the air, as an uninvited guest who’s laying waste to someone else’s property… We may have no escape, Cyrus, but at least the earth will be freed of her most self-destructive and careless guests, and by no other reason than ther own selfish stupidity,” he added sternly, his voice almost feral, a strange glitter in his icy eyes. “There will still be life, after the last human has disappeared from Earth!”

“I cannot believe what you’re saying” Cyrus said softly, looking his friend in the eyes and shivering at the almost unrecognisable depths that lurked in there. “I told you, Greenwood, I won’t surrender while I still breathe,” he added, stepping out of his friend’s office without looking back. 

Cyrus awoke in the early hours of the night. He had gone to bed right after their argument and had tried to sleep, tired as he was after two days with little rest, but his repose had been plagued by strange dreams. He had dreamt of his wife, too, for the first time in many years. She was clad in glistening white and smiled at him tenderly, lovingly, extending her arms as if wanting to embrace him.

He walked out in search of some fresh air. The camp was silent, although it wasn’t very late, and the moon was still high. Cyrus walked aimlessly, entering the forest, searching for a place where he could sit and put his thoughts in order. 

He was still shocked by that afternoon’s conversation. _“Inhuman? Glad you finally noticed._

Greenwood’s words haunted him. He knew that his friend was right, he had known that this was bound to happen, but somewhere in the deepest corner of his mind, stemming from something more ancient and innate that a long-forgotten religion, he had felt a tinge of recognition, the last spark of an everlasting hope burning back to life when Silvertree had walked into that empty meeting room after his last speech before the Directorate.

He was not sure, he had never been, whether his friends were flawed humans, as himself, or another, otherworldly beings somehow in charge of making a miracle happen. Deep inside, he knew now, he had _hoped_ with childish fervor.

The forest was dangerously silent all of a sudden, Cyrus noticed coming abruptly out of his troubled thoughts. He had inadvertently come too far away from the camp and now he felt a lurking danger, a strange presence. 

He looked around. The full moon filtered through the sparse canopy, leaving little room for hiding. He stopped dead and listened intently, straining to hear anything. 

He saw it before he heard it, a powerful puma lurking among the trees, its muscled body tense, its eyes sparkling, its glistening coat shimmering under the moonlight, a low purring echoing in the forest.

Cyrus held his breath and considered his options. The puma wasn’t looking at him, but Cyrus knew that it had spotted him long ago. It seemed enthralled by something different, something placed to Cyrus’ left. He soon realized with trepidation that the puma was stalking another prey. 

And then he saw him.

There stood Greenwood, under the pale moonlight, clad in the khaki shorts he usually donned for outdoors activity, his wired, taut body glistening, red and black lines marking strange patterns along his rippling muscles, his long mane shimmering around him, looking almost translucent, an eerie creature of the forest even more than the mystified puma, his eyes glittering strangely, brighter than the reflection of the pale moon. 

Cyrus stood there, transfixed, as man and beast locked eyes in silent conversation, muscles rippling in both perfect bodies, a long spear in the man’s hand, sharp claws in deadly paws. The debate wasn’t long, and soon the man bowed his head briefly and then shook his golden mane off his eyes, squaring his shoulders and raising his spear, his feet affirmed, his long legs lightly flexed, his body taut and his eyes alert. 

Swift as lightning, the beast lunged forth. With a clean, elegant movement, the spear found its way through the creature’s heart, it seemed, for it fell and rolled as a dead weight. 

Nothing moved in the clearing, as the godly figure stood there, panting heavily and looking at the dead animal sprawled at his feet. He squatted by the beast’s side, after pulling out the spear carefully, and bowed to caress the carcass with reverence. His long mane covered his features, but Cyrus could have sworn that he was whispering something, maybe a blessing, perhaps a prayer. 

With a swift, effortless movement, he pushed the dead beast across his shoulders. As he rose, Cyrus could glimpse a fresh trail of tears running through that beautiful face. 

Cyrus felt his knees buckle, and he leaned on a trunk and slid to seat on the forest floor, stunned by a beauty not intended for mortal eyes, he suddenly realized, as Greenwood marched across the forest in his light, elastic pace, burdened by the dead weight but alight with the spirit of the dead beast, as if it had melted with his own life force.

Cyrus could not put words to what he had witnessed, he only knew that he felt a mixture of fulfilment and piercing hunger, as after a long night of sweet, slow lovemaking, a feeling that sated the limbs but aroused the soul to an endless search for those fleeting lapses of eternity. 

It was in the strange hour before dawn that Cyrus finally found the strength to make it back to his cabin. 

˜*˜*˜*˜*˜

He next ran into Greenwood three days after that incident, at breakfast time. 

“Cyrus!” he strode by his side, “I must ask for a favour...” 

Greenwood had been closeted in his office for the last days, reportedly busy with some unexpected development. He looked as young and strong as ever, Cyrus thought grudgingly, while he was still recovering from his previous efforts. 

“What is it?” he answered neutrally. 

“I know that you’re…disappointed, and that you may be considering… leaving camp...” Greenwood offered hesitantly. With a deep intake, Cyrus stopped and faced his friend. 

“I am,” he acknowledged loyally, “but that doesn’t mean that I have come to a decision, so spit it out, man, what can I do for you?” he added, retrieving their bantering ways of old. 

“I must leave urgently, there is something that requires my presence and I don’t know for how long...” Greenwood said seriously. “Silvertree should be back in two or three months at best. It’s unusual that the two of us are abroad at the same time, but I cannot postpone it any longer and I wanted to ask you to… take care of my projects. My assistants do most of the job, but... I trust your eye for the most refined conclusions...And I wouldn’t want for you to make a final decision before talking to Silvertree.” 

“You’re bribing me with information, Greenwood? Isn’t a bit too late for that?” Cyrus asked with a mockingly offended voice, and had the satisfaction of seeing his friend blush for once. “Ha! I got you!” he added, laughing loudly and patting Greenwood’s back, “Of course, my friend, tell me what is it that you need...” 

A weeek later, Cyrus was familiar with all the intricacies of Greenwood’s complex environmental tracking system, and he wondered why he had never taken interest in his friend’s activities during all those years. 

“Well, this has always been open to you, as is everything here,” Greenwood told him with all sincerity, “but I’m glad you chose the soil. You wouldn’t have gone so far had you being paying attention to my data…It is an amazing job you’ve done there...”

They were sitting by the old beech that had harboured Greenwood and Silvertree’s refuge for so many years. It had died a few years ago, and they had taken to sit by its trunk out of unspoken respect, instead of still climbing its naked frame to the Talan. 

“Bard and Poet are responsible of that, too, and of its dissemination and continued improvement and updating of _Laplant_...” 

“Yes, but I was speaking of the soil nursery. There is a great number of soil experts now out there who learnt with you, you’ve spent many years teaching the young ones, Cyrus, and that’s what will make the difference in the end…Hydroponics can sustain large populations, but caring for the soil and seeing growing trees full of birds and forests teeming with wildlife is a completely different emotion.” 

“In the end?” Cyrus asked, amused in spite of himself. 

“Well, if you’re going to plunder my figures you might as well come up with a projection, Cyrus. We spoke of an end, but not about a date…” 

“Ok, I say… two hundred years,” for some reason Cyrus always let himself be dragged by Greenwood’s prodding. 

“I’ll give you time to adjust your prediction, my friend,” Greenwood laughed good-naturedly. 

They sat in silence for a while, watching the stars. 

“Do they know?” Cyrus pointed vaguely at the quiet camp. 

“What? That the end is coming? Everybody knows, Cyrus. None of them is undergoing longevity treatment or bio enhancements, so why would they worry? Doctor Feldman says it shall happen in a distant couple of centuries …” 

He had a point there, Cyrus sighed, wondering for the first time whether he would be alive by then, and whether he wanted to. Longevity was an unexplored subject, and he was still the oldest living person, or so he had thought before meeting Silvertree and Greenwood, but nobody knew how many years he could expect to continue to be so. He had rejected reinforcing treatments, follow-ups and other options, and, with some reluctance, it had been granted to him. As his doctor at the camp’s hospital had told him, he could either last another two or three hundred years, or die tomorrow, no one could know. He preferred it thus. 

“What happened to the puma, Greenwood?” he heard himself ask against his conscious will. 

He endured a long, appraising glance from those deep, bottomless eyes. 

“I had been trying to convince him to move away for a long time, and every moon he would move closer to the compounds… He wouldn’t yield, Cyrus, he would not give up his territory for the sake of preserving a life that wouldn’t be his own anymore,” he answered softly. 

“So he fulfilled his nature…” Cyrus’ voice held no hint of mockery, he was eager to understand. 

“As much as the wandering albatrosses. They wouldn’t yield either. They tried everything, year after year. They managed to move this north when their homeland was submerged, they changed their breeding season… and they kept trying every two years, no matter that their younglings never survived. It’s in their nature. They will never surrender, but they won’t win this war." He sighed deeply. "And try as you might," he carried on, his voice a soft whisper in the night's breeze, "you can win many battles and still find your hands full of fruitless victories in the end. It is the same wind that carries us all, Cyrus, and it’ll be blowing still when there’s nothing left upon the surface…” 

“So what are we supposed to do, then?” Cyrus’ voice held no anger, just the immeasurable anguish of a long life coming to its end, a desperate plea for some hope to hold on to, even if it was a flickering light at the end of a dark tunnel. 

“Keep going, Cyrus, and keep hoping.” 

*****

Next morning, Cyrus drove the battered sun-powered jeep down to the small airport. 

“You’re a good man, Cyrus,” Greenwood said in a soft voice, putting his broad hands upon Cyrus’ shoulders and looking him in the eye. “And I’m proud to count you among my friends.” 

“I am, too,” Cyrus smiled, strangely moved by the serious tone in his usually merry friend. “Take care, Greenwood.” 

“You too,” he said, shaking his hand firmly and walking to the small airplane without looking back. 

As he drove back to camp, climbing the now bereft mountainside, Cyrus had the strange feeling that he would never see his friend again. 

**TBC-**

Chapter title comes from a poem by Wendell Berry

 _Gaucho_ : South American cowboy. 

_Puma,_ the Qechua word for the mountain lion. The puma had a symbolic and magical meaning commonly associated to royalty in the Inca empire.


End file.
